Promise of Frost
by Eurydice11
Summary: When a snowstorm strands Buffy and Spike, they are forced to turn to each other for strength, especially when a missing Giles, mysterious visitors, and way too much magic threatens to turn it into a not so very merry Christmas. Set mid-S4, BS. - Complete
1. Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Our story starts two weeks before Christmas during Season 4 of Buffy.  A few modifications I'm making for the set-up…after the Gentlemen escapades, Spike goes right back to living with Giles rather than staying at Xander's (something I never fully understood why didn't happen on the show, considering how much Xander and Spike disliked each other), so he's living with Giles when this story opens.  And instead of Riley claiming that he likes Buffy's ability to beat him up (which also didn't mesh with me on the show in light of his later behavior in season 5), he has broken up with her, leaving them friends but not lovers.  Spike is also well aware that he can hurt demons at this point, too.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  I'm in the mood for something a little lighter than Voices or Rook turned out to be, and so I'm going with my holiday fic, even though the holidays are long over.  It's not really about the season anyway, because as we all know, it's about Spike and Buffy all the way, baby… 

*************

Dark.

Surrounding her.

Like the whole world holding its breath.

The familiar chilly swirl around her legs was as soothing as the hard weight of the stake poised in her hand, and Buffy could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears as she waited.

And waited.

And then…

The single spotlight, brilliant and blinding, erupted from nowhere, disclosing the frozen arch of her body, the proud tilt of her chin as she stared out into the void.  They were out there, and though they could see her, she couldn't see them, and the thrill of the not-knowing, the vim of being the spectacle to their voyeuristic hunger, made her veins pulse in anticipation of the dance that was about to begin.

He was out there, too, blanketed by the shadows.  She couldn't hear him, but his constant presence was a tingle that rippled down her spine with a surety that both quickened and clarified her readiness.  A single slide of her eyes would capture him in her periphery, yet that would disrupt the program, and she couldn't do that.  There were steps to follow; he trusted her to stick to them.

The baseline came first, a driving pulse that incited her feet to launch into the effortless glides of the first act.  Only the spotlight followed her; in this particular duet, most of the arena remained dark, adding to the ambience as they drew in their audience.  Now, her partner's movements were audible, blades slicing and shivering as they made contact with the ice, each step precise, each stroke an element in elegance, and though he was only a streak of ebony and silver as they played the roles of vampire and slayer for the auditorium, she knew without having to be told that each of her own strokes mirrored his, both in grace and accuracy.

And here it came, the first of the jumps, and she watched as he sped and wove toward her, lifting the stake for the plunge while at the same time meeting his eyes.  The blue blazed even in the dim light on the ice, and she had to fight not to lose herself in them, lest her concentration lapse as she met him face on---

_---please don't let me two foot it, please don't let me two foot it_---

---and was launched into her triple Axel, a blur of white as she flew through the air.

The audience exploded with applause when she landed cleanly back on the ice, and Buffy allowed herself a momentary smile of delight as she faced her partner before swiveling around to begin the skate away.  His pride at her abilities was undeniably etched across his aspect; not once during their tenure together had he ever taken her skills for granted, though to many it appeared that he shouldered all the heavy work.  They knew the truth.  His contribution was an illusion, not the lynchpin of power, but the extra oomph to Buffy's natural strength that made the spins, lifts, and jumps magic to behold.

She'd had other partners, of course, but none of them had ever lasted like he had.  The reasons were numerous---failure to match her level of discipline, reluctance to overextend themselves lest they hurt her.  Then, he had come along, and though there had been sparks, they just _fit_, and the program hadn't been the same since.

The audience was with them, every step of the way.  From the moment his black coat billowed out behind him when he began his footwork at the top of the number, to the final death spiral that made Buffy's body feel as if it was skimming on an ocean of liquid air, the crowd watched as Slayer stalked Vampire, coming together before breaking apart and then coming together again for the gripping finale.  They couldn't feel the electricity that ran down her sides when his hand would grasp her hip, and they didn't see the synchronicity in their gazes when he would anticipate any errors she might make.  They only saw the beauty of the dance, the pair of blonds skating along the ice, spinning and jumping and losing themselves to the music.

The final beat of the score was punctuated by her blades showering his fallen body in ice as her hockey stop brought her to his side.  There was a fraction of resistance as she did so, enough to make her lose her concentration for a second, and then silence, as she raised her stake in triumph.  

She held the pose…

…his prone body deadly still at her feet…

…and then the crowd returned to life, their applause thunderous as he joined her to take their bows.  

Side by side they stood, soaking in the adoration, the sweat beading on her brow from the exertion.  Buffy stole a glance to the figure at her side, and felt her chest hitch at the thin line of crimson that stole down his temple.  "Oh, my god," she whispered, forgetting for a moment the ones who watched.  "Are you all right?  Did I do that?"

"'S'nothin, pet," came the murmured reply.  "Just a scratch.  Not even worth noticin'."

But she did notice, and the knowledge that she'd somehow failed her partner, the one who trusted her not to, cast a pall over the otherwise glory of the moment.  Mechanically, she picked up the flowers that were tossed to their feet, not feeling the thorns that pricked her fingers, nor seeing the droplets of blood bouncing off the ice below.  "It won't happen again," she said quietly as they skated out of the arena, legs slicing in rhythm as his hand settled at the small of her back.  "I promise."

When he looked down at her, it was an odd mixture of both confusion and certainty that gleamed in those dark depths.  "But I already knew that, Buffy," he said.  The hand that held her steady, both on and off the ice, took hers as they exited, entwining with her fingers as he led her to the benches.  Already, the music for the next act was starting in the distance, but she didn't hear it, lost in the cacophony of backstage, the other bodies beginning to press into hers and forcing her to focus on not losing sight of her partner as he walked away.

The program was over.

But the show was only beginning…

*************

"…and it's going to be a _glorious_ morning for all those getting ready to go out and face the day.  Sunny and bright, with no signs of the storms that they're predicting for up north---."

Buffy groaned as she rolled over and slapped at the alarm clock on her nightstand.  Gotta remember to turn that off tonight, she thought grumpily, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders and nestling back into its warmth.  First rule of winter breaks.  Sleep in as much as humanly possible.

"Buffy?  Are you up?  I made pancakes!"

Damn super-Mom hearing.  

"I'm up!" she called back, and stretched along the length of the mattress, the burn in her muscles chasing away the vestiges of a dream she couldn't really remember.  Blearily, she rose from the bed, and stumbled to the bathroom, kicking aside the shoes she didn't remember taking off the previous night and wondering why it was again Slayers didn't get to take Christmas holidays off like the rest of the real world.  Oh yeah, she thought grumpily as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.  Higher calling, yadda yadda, Chosen One, blah blah, sacred duty to save the world, big frickin' whoop.

She sighed, splashing some cold water onto her face.  Keep an attitude like this and no way was Santa going to leave her any new stakes in her stocking this year.  She'd end up with a fistful of nothing for being such a Scrooge.

"Good morning," Joyce said brightly when Buffy strolled into the kitchen ten minutes later.  

"I'm with you on the morning part," she replied, heading straight for the refrigerator.

"Bad night?"

Buffy shrugged.  "The usual.  Except I think I have to finally give up on that cute white top ever being wearable again.  I've got this itchy feeling that purple Brachna-whatsit blood is going to stain something fierce."

"It wasn't being back in your bed again, was it?"  Casually, Joyce slipped two of the pancakes off the griddle and onto a plate.  "I know it must seem weird coming home after being on your own in the dorm for so long."

"Mom, I'm a Slayer on the Hellmouth.  Weird is hugely relative."  She pulled out the maple syrup and grimaced.  "We don't have any blueberry?"

"Bottom shelf.  Behind the yogurt."  Her gaze was contemplative as she regarded her daughter rummaging around in the fridge.  "You just seem a little out of it this morning, Buffy.  You did sleep, didn't you?"

"Yep.  Did that newfangled thing called dreaming, too.  I think it was the Stars on Ice one again.  I'm kind of fuzzy on the details.  Aha!"  She straightened in triumph, a nearly empty bottle of blueberry syrup in her hand.  "Syrupy goodness makes everything better," she announced, and climbed onto the nearest stool at the kitchen island.

"So something _is_ wrong," Joyce pressed.

Buffy sighed.  She _really_ wasn't going to let this go.  "Not wrong," she said carefully.  "Just…not completely right, either.  I dunno.  I guess I just pictured this Christmas being different.  All mistletoe, and no big bads, and the commando mystery all figured out.  There was serious signage that a very Buffy Christmas was in the works, and now…"  A sigh as she drew abstract swirls through her breakfast.  "I thought Riley and I were doing pretty good considering, but then he wigged on the whole my being able to beat the crap out of him, even though I totally wouldn't and I don't see how it even matters when we're on the same side, you know?  And isn't he the one who's supposed to be all Mr. Enlightenment?  But no, girl power steps up and sends him flying across the room with just one little punch, and then it's, oh I think we should just be friends, Buffy, don't you?"  She growled in frustration, her fork stabbing into her pancakes.  "I even held back when he asked me not to.  Can you imagine how lame his excuse would've been if I'd actually hit him for real?"

Without saying a word, Joyce set a glass of juice in front of Buffy's plate, and stepped back to lean against the sink.  It only took two bites worth of feeling her mother's eyes on her before the Slayer broke, setting down her fork and looking up into her face.  "What?" she asked.

"I didn't say anything."

"No, you're giving me the mom look.  Hence, you're thinking something you'd rather not say, so, c'mon.  Spit it out.  I can take it.  I'm a big strong girl apparently."

"Well, you'd be wrong.  I was just thinking how much you're growing up, and how much I'm missing of it because you don't live at home any more.  So, no big mystery to solve, Buffy.  Just me being nostalgic."

"It's the pancakes," she said with a smile.  "There must be something in the smell that gets to people.  Like pheromones."

Joyce bit back her amusement.  "Pancake…pheromones?"

"Hey, it's the Hellmouth.  It could happen."

Slowly, Joyce sipped at her coffee, watching Buffy over the rim of her cup before she finally said, "Actually, there _is_ something I wanted to talk to you about…"

Her grin was triumphant.  "I knew it!  You can't pull one over on these college girl's eyes.  I've been seeing that mom look for _way_ too long not to know when it means something."

"Well, part of this…mom look is that I got a call last night.  From your Aunt Darlene.  She's coming to visit us this weekend.  Get a chance to catch up before the holidays."

Buffy's grin immediately vanished, to be replaced by her jaw dropping and disbelief clouding her eyes.  "But…you just saw her at Thanksgiving."

"Yes, but _you_ didn't.  It'll be nice for them to hear how great you're doing.  You haven't seen them in ages.  You're not doing anything this weekend, are you?"

"This weekend?"  Her mind raced.  How could she get out of this?  Three days with nosy family asking her about school, and her boyfriend, and what was she doing with all her free time now that she was footloose and fancy-free living in the dorm.  Not one of those topics boded well for a comfortable start to her holiday.  "Not so much," she admitted when her mind came up with nothing, "except that it's _just_ my first real break since finals.  The only definite thing was hanging out at Giles' this morning filling him in on stuff so he doesn't feel left out.  Maybe making fun of Spike while we're there.  Oh, and there'll probably be donuts."

"That's good, then.  Darlene'll be glad to hear you'll be around this time."

There was a pause while Buffy dug back into her breakfast.  "I knew the pancakes were evil," she muttered.  

"You shouldn't be so hard on him, you know," Joyce said.

"Who, Giles?  Willow's the one who said he was---."

"I meant Spike."

She stopped in mid-chew, eyes wide in incredulity.  "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I think you and the others are being far too cavalier in your treatment of Spike.  He's going through a rough time right now---."

"Oh, boo hoo, the big bad bleached vampire can't kill all my friends.  Yeah, that's a rough time all right."

"I'm just saying---."

"Did you know he actually called Xander a nummy treat when he was staying with him?  If that chip was out, Spike wouldn't think twice about killing all of us in our sleep, Mom.  I'm not about to start feeling bad because he's muzzled for the time being."

"Somehow, I find it very difficult to believe that Spike used the word 'nummy' with any degree of seriousness.  That sounds like a Xander interpretation to me."  Turning around, Joyce began rinsing out her mug in the sink.  "I'm not asking you to feel bad, Buffy.  I'm just suggesting that maybe you could be a little more understanding about his situation.  You told me what happened when the Watcher's Council did that little test on your birthday, how you felt powerless.  Don't you think that maybe Spike's going through some of the same thing?"

Setting down her fork, Buffy wiped her mouth before hopping up from the stool.  "OK, first of all, Spike's _not_ powerless.  He can still hit things.  They just have to be demon things.  And secondly, my sitch and Spike's sitch?  Two _totally_ different issues."

"Still, it wouldn't hurt to cut him a little slack---where are you going?"

The Slayer stopped at the door, her hand on the knob.  "I told you.  Over to Giles'.  Before all the pancake pheromones in this place start making _me_ go soft on Spike, too."  And with a small wave, she hurried out the door.

*************

She walked in on chaos.

"I don't need a bloody babysitter!"

"It would only be for the weekend---."

"Am I talking to myself?  Vampire here.  Took care of myself for more than a century---."

"Which of course explains you showing up on Giles' doorstep looking like the little vamp that couldn't---."

"Watch it, pizza boy---."

"I understand it's a lot to ask---."

"Whoa, Nellie."  Buffy parked herself between the three men, holding up her hands to keep Spike and Xander from going at it with more than their words.  Looking over at where Willow sat quietly at the desk, she asked, "What's going on here?"

"It's called Pass the Spike," the vampire answered angrily before the redhead could say anything.  "And it's fuckin' ridiculous, if you ask me."

"Giles?  What's he talking about?"

Clearing his throat, the Watcher's hands sank into his pockets as he looked down at his charge.  "I'm attempting to find accommodation for Spike," he explained.  He ignored the vampire's snort of derision.  "A rather important symposium has requested me as a keynote speaker at one of their gatherings this weekend---."

"If they're so bloody important, why'd they nancy about 'til the last minute to ask you, Rupes?"

"Shut up, Spike."  Her order at him was automatic, but almost immediately, Buffy heard her mother's voice in the back of her head, admonishing her for being too hard on the demon.  _Not too hard_, she thought irritably.  _He's interrupting._

"Yes, well, regardless of their…timing, it's still a very distinguished honor to be asked," Giles continued.

"Not to mention the fair bit of dosh they're payin', right?"

"I said, shut up, Spike!"  This time it was louder, harsher, and was met with a furious scowl from its intended target.  She watched as his jaw opened to say something in response, and then snap shut again as he whirled on his boot heel and stomped over to the couch.  "Now.  Let's try this again," Buffy said, turning to face Giles.  "Some group of brainiacs wants you to give a speech this weekend?"

"Yes.  They're convening at a ski resort up north.  It's a bit of a drive, so it would require me being absent for two or three days, and as I'd rather not leave Spike alone, I'm trying to find other arrangements for him."

"That's easy.  He can stay with Xander again."

"Sorry, Buff," Xander said, raising his hand.  "The Harris Inn is completely full.  For some reason known only to God and Mom, she's gone on some bender about having the whole family in for Christmas this year, and I've got two cousins and a bedwetting nephew bunking with me in the basement.  So me casa is no casa."

"Oh."  She frowned and started to turn toward Willow, but the redhead beat her to the punch.

"We're not even going to be here," she said.  "Whatever bug flew up Mrs. Harris' skirt apparently whispered in _my_ mom's ear that this Hanukkah is the perfect time to steep me in the history of the Rosenberg woman.  So I'm being dragged to Milwaukee until after the New Year.  Sorry."

"I know it's rather a lot to ask," Giles said carefully, "but, in light of our lack of options, I don't suppose you'd consider letting him stay at your house, Buffy?  You're really the one best equipped to handle Spike---."

"And for the last time, I don't need handlin'!"

"---and it would only be for the weekend."

The weekend…the same weekend she was being dragged off to face the family inquisition.  "I can't," she said in resignation.  "It must be a holiday thing because Mom's got family coming by for some good old-fashioned quality time.  Sorry."

"Well, guess that settles it then."  A smug Spike rose to his feet and began sauntering toward the kitchen.  "I think I fancy a cuppa to celebrate."

"Why don't you take him with you?" Buffy asked her Watcher.  Her words brought Spike to an immediate halt as he turned a frowning face toward her.  "If this symposium is such a big deal and you don't want him to get into your things while you're gone, just let him tag along.  I'm sure wherever you're going has a bathtub you can chain him up in."

"Yes, I do believe a bathroom is one of the listed amenities," he said dryly.  "But I'd rather hoped it wouldn't come to that.  I didn't…anticipate spending much time in my suite."

"So, for the last soddin' time, just leave me be."  Spike was at their side in a flash, his jaw flexing, his eyes riveted to Giles'.  A flash of hurt determination skimmed behind the blue and Buffy found herself blinking in surprise when she saw it.  "If I haven't already nicked your stuff, odds are I'm not goin' to.  What's it take to get a little trust with you people?"

"Maybe if you hadn't tried to kill us so many times," Xander started, but quieted when Buffy held up her hand.

"What if I came with you?" she asked Giles.  The question popped out of her mouth before she could stop it, and she could feel the surprise bombarding her from all directions.  _Mom wants me to be nicer to Spike, I think lack of chains is about as nice as I can be right now.  Plus, extra bonus for getting me away from Aunt Darlene and too many good intentions_._  And did I hear Giles say this was at a ski resort?_  It sounded like the best solution all around, and anything that distracted from whatever funk seemed to be taking control of her mood lately had to be good, right?  "We work out a schedule who watches him when, and nobody has to worry about Spike being a naughty vamp and doing something that would get him staked."

"Thanks ever so, Slayer," he muttered, but his eyes were dark and unfathomable when she glanced at him, and she tore her gaze away, not willing to have to consider the headache thinking of Spike gave her these days.

"That's…very generous, Buffy, but what about your mother?"

Buffy shrugged.  "It's just for the weekend, right?  I'll just tell her it's Slayer-related.  You promise me at least one night of fun and frolicking minus Spike or a Watcher looking over my shoulder, and I'm in."

Everyone ignored Spike's storming from the room, and the way the walls shook from the force with which he slammed the bathroom door.  It was only when he re-emerged a few minutes later, face deceptively calm, that Buffy allowed herself the luxury of giving what she'd offered any more thought.  

_I'm a sick, sick Slayer to be agreeing to this.  There's no way I can go the whole weekend without killing him._

*************

Thick soft snow drifted across the glass, not sticking but accumulating like lace in the corners, all too Rockwellian in its obviousness as it painted the car in white.  "Ooo, pretty," Buffy exclaimed from the front seat of the rental, and Spike rolled his eyes as he scrunched further down into the back.  Leave it to the Slayer to get enamored with a few frosted flakes, he thought irritably.  Silly bint acts like she's never seen snow before.

Still, better to have her absorbed in the weather outside than to be paying him any mind, Spike reasoned.  Ever since her out-of-the-blue overture to tag along on Rupert's little speech-quest, she'd been acting odd around him---one minute complaining about having to do a butcher run for the trip, the next muttering an awkward "um…please" at the end of her request that he keep a low profile when they'd stopped around her place to pick up her things.  It was throwing off his game, and Spike was edgy enough as it was.  Must be that time of the month, he decided, though his nose told him otherwise.  Only reason for her barmy behavior.

They had left immediately after sunset, and now, four hours later and still a good three away from their destination, they were the only ones on the road, the unexpected snow slowing their pace.  Conversation had been brisk at the start of the trip, but with the weather worsening, all three had lapsed into silence, keeping to his or her thoughts.  It was just as well; the last bit of chat had left Spike dying for a fag but unable to have one at risk of being tossed in the boot by the Slayer.

_"So what exactly is Boxing Day?" she'd asked in all innocence._

_"The day after Christmas," Giles had replied.  The automatic glance into his rearview mirror told Spike more than his words did; in spite of not being able to see his passenger's reflection, he was already looking for help from a fellow Englishman to curb the curious American's questions._

_"Is it a real holiday?  Or just a Hallmark holiday?"_

_"No, it's a real holiday.  Oh look.  Is that a deer?"_

_His attempt to distract her failed.  "So why is it called Boxing Day?  Is that the day you're supposed to return unwanted gifts to the stores or something?"_

_Giles' reply came over Spike's snort.  "No, traditionally, shops aren't open for business on Boxing Day."_

_"But it has something to do with boxes, right?  Or is it boxing, like Mike Tyson boxing?  It's not a big sports day, is it?  Because that would just be weird."_

_"Oh, and spending the first day of the year glued to the telly watching American football is the _perfect_ way to celebrate a fresh beginning."  Spike had rolled his eyes.  "Look, Slayer.  He's not goin' to answer you because he doesn't bloody well know.  You take five different Englishmen and ask 'em that same question, and you'll get five different answers.  The fact of the matter is, you get up, you eat your bubble and squeak, you get pissed, you go to bed.  It's just a holiday.  End of story.  So unless you want Rupert to start nattering on about how the day's rooted in old Britain's bloody need to preserve class lines by playing beneficiary to the less fortunate, I suggest you drop it once and for all, 'cause something tells me that topic of conversation's goin' to be even dryer than whatever peccadillo he's got planned for his symposium soiree."_

_She'd looked back at him then, and for a moment he'd wondered if he'd grown a third head from the way she regarded him.  Almost as if she wasn't completely sure he'd said what had just come out of his mouth.  A flicker of something---surprise? amazement?---danced behind the green, but just when he was about to relax his own countenance in the face of hers, she spoke again._

_"So what's bubble and squeak?"_

The reminder that chains didn't require a bathtub, and that the trunk was just as good a riding seat as any if one didn't need to breathe, was all he needed to withdraw into his head.  It's not like Spike was _trying_ to dwell on his frustration at being treated as such a second-class citizen.  It was just…well, honestly, what _was _the bug up Rupert's skirt about all this?  He got left alone all the time when the Watcher went out, and except for that time when he'd been caught sneaking out trying to pawn some of that vinyl he kept laying about, he'd been on his best behavior with the git.  In fact, it only seemed right that the old man would want some distance, with as much as he griped about having to share everything with Spike.  This forcing him along to keep an eye on him was just a load of bollocks.

So was the Slayer's presence for that matter, but a small part of Spike was thrilling at that little addition.  Three days with her mostly at his beck and call…it certainly offered the opportunity for a tad bit more entertainment value than his usual daily grind.  He may complain a good game, but when it came down to it, no one brought a smile to his face faster than the Slayer.  Usually it was a grin at her indignation when he managed to get a gibe in that particularly hurt.  Or a leer when he could smell the frustration wafting from her every pore.  Maybe he'd even get lucky and get the chance to see her fight.  Now _that_ would be worth the price of admission on this whole bloody weekend.  The chance to see the poetry of Buffy Summers in motion.

_Wonder if I can talk her into patrolling while we're there?  Should definitely get to see her then and get a nice spot of violence of my own to top it off._

So lost was he in his musings that he didn't see the dark shadow dart into the road.  The only thing Spike was aware of was the Slayer's shout of warning to her Watcher, and then the sharp sideways lurch of the vehicle as Giles attempted to avoid whatever had crossed their path.  It might've worked if the falling snow hadn't played deception with the ice it covered on the concrete, and the rental car slid out of control onto the embankment, tumbling an unbuckled Spike against the door when it began to tip, only to smash his head into the roof when it started to roll.  

Within seconds of Buffy's shout, all three occupants were unconscious.

To be continued in Chapter 2:  Over the River and Through the Woods…


	2. Over the River and Through the Woods

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Giles has been asked to speak at a symposium north of Sunnydale, and when he is reluctant to leave Spike alone, Buffy is the only one who can help out, tagging along for the ride, only to be knocked unconscious when the trio gets in a car accident…

*************

He woke to the scent of blood.

Thick, luscious, piquant, and making his mouth water just at the prospect of it running over his tongue.

And though he felt the delicate tickle as it dripped down the side of his face, Spike knew that it wasn't his own blood that he was smelling.  He'd been in more than enough fights with her to recognize the scent of hurt Slayer when it assaulted his senses.

Cracking his lids open, the first thing he saw was the huge dent in the roof overhead, buckled and bent as if a giant had tried poking his fingers through the metal in order to extract its occupants like some candy surprise.  That's modern engineering for you, he thought irritably.  One little roll and it's tin can alley for the bleedin' car.  The door at his feet was dented in as well, and Spike had a sneaking suspicion that if he turned his head, he'd see the same thing behind him.  

Somehow, the smell was even more overpowering with his eyes open, and gingerly, he sat up from his sprawled position across the seat, stretching his limbs as he did so.  Nothing broken, though his noggin had taken a good hit, screaming at him from the inside like a banshee straight out of hell.

"Well, that was a kick and a half," he drawled as he wiped at the blood running down his face.  Sucking it off his thumb, he half-turned toward the front seat, ready for whatever derisive quip the Slayer would throw at him this time.

It never came.

She was slumped against her seat belt, an angry red welt from the strap scraping its path around her neck to disappear beneath the collar of her blouse, her lashes dark against the bluing of her cheek.  Golden tendrils were sticking to her forehead where the source of the blood he smelled flowed, and though he could see the spider web cracks in her window, he spoke to her just the same, trying to confirm his suspicions.

"Slayer?"  His voice seemed too loud in the confines of the car, but when it elicited no response, he tried again, this time reaching out to shake her shoulder.  "Buffy?"

Nothing.  Out cold.  Giles' old man driving had finally done someone in.

Only then did the break in Spike's scrutiny allow him to register what should've been obvious the second he'd sat forward.  With a very deliberate turn of his head, he looked over at the driver's seat, and his lips pursed tightly together.  The Watcher was gone.

Not gone, as in dead, but gone as in…no longer there.  The driver's door was jammed closed, but a quick glance was all Spike needed to know that that hadn't been Giles' egress of choice.  In rolling down the embankment, the car had been stopped, right side up, by slamming into a large tree, and the thick trunk now effectively blocked any way of opening the door from the inside.  The windshield was also out as a viable option; though cracked and non-usable, it was still in one piece, with no gap in it large enough for someone of Rupert's size to get through.

What made it even more odd was that the driver's seat belt was still firmly fastened, empty as if whatever it had contained had simply been lifted out, and the keys were missing from the ignition.

Jaw grim in determination, Spike turned to the rear doors, pulling ineffectively at their handles only to learn that they too were broken in the accident, blockading him inside the vehicle.  "Fuck that," he muttered, and leaned back on his elbows, his booted heel smashing against the window to send it flying into the snow that still swirled outside.  It was a tight fit to shimmy through it, but he'd done worse over the course of his lifetime, and ended up half-buried in the accumulating snow by the time he tumbled out the other side.

The storm was even worse than it had been when they'd gone off the road.  Darkness wouldn't have normally been a problem for the vampire, but now it was laced with flurrying flakes that eddied and whirled around Spike's head.  Shifting into game face didn't help much, but the simple act calmed his furious nerves.  Mother Nature wanted to fuck with him?  He'd give her a hell of a fight then, and go down biting with the bitch if that was the case.

Right.  So.  First order of business.  Get the fuck out of the storm before---.

Her groan cut him off.  Even with the wind whistling in his ears, Spike heard the Slayer's moan and without thinking, stepped forward and yanked her door from its pins.  Rupert can kiss that security deposit goodbye, he thought as he crouched at her side.

From this vantage, she looked even worse.  Her wrist was obviously broken, bent at an awkward angle across her lap, and there was more blood oozing from various points on her body.  A jagged piece of plastic extruded from her calf, but when Spike grabbed its edge and yanked it free, an agonized cry bubbled from Buffy's throat and he looked up in time to see her eyes flutter open.

"Spike…?" she murmured when her gaze met his.  Confusion merged with pain in the darkened green of her eyes, yet it wasn't that that captured his attention.  Instead, Spike's gaze fixated on the grey pallor setting in her skin, pinching around her lips, and a comfortless understanding sank into his stomach.

Even if her Watcher _had_ managed to get out somehow to go get help, and even if the Slayer _did_ have super-healing capabilities that would make mincemeat of most of her injuries under normal circumstances, the bitter cold would do her in faster than either could help.  She was already shivering from the blasts of wind gusting through the interior, the flakes clinging to her lashes, and the tiny coat she was wearing was doing nothing to protect her from the elements.

His mind raced.  Part of him was shouting to hell with it, leave the Slayer be and get himself sorted.  The cold wouldn't bother him too much while he found shelter until it passed, and then he'd be a free agent again---albeit a chipped one---away from the Hellmouth and ready to start trying to make a fresh start of it.  It wasn't his bloody fault she was in her current state---that honor rested on her Watcher's head---and it wasn't as if he cared a rat's ass what happened to her anyway.  So why weren't his feet moving?

Because in his gut, he knew he couldn't do it.  She was a warrior, brilliant in her killing beauty in spite of being a white hat.  If she was going to die, it was going to be at the hand of a worthy opponent, preferably him.  Freezing to death when she could live to fight another day was beneath her.  

"Where's Giles?" she asked, her voice ragged.

"Gone," was his reply.  "It's just the two of us."  What else could he say?  It didn't make sense to him that her Watcher would just up and vanish when his Slayer was bleeding to death at his side, so it was pointless trying to draw any conclusions.  "We're goin' to have to get you out of here," he said.  "How do you feel?  Anything broken?"

She ignored his question, staring back at him with eyes whose lucidity countered the balance of her injuries.  "What are you doing?" she asked.

"What?"  He bristled under her intense gaze, throwing his shoulders back.  "Just thought…Look.  Fine.  Have it your way.  You want to freeze to death, you be my guest---."

Her hand shot out and grabbed his arm when he began to straighten, strong in spite of her wounds.  Spike glanced down at it for a long moment, her fingers pale where they curled over the leather, before looking up to see the darkened green of her eyes.  

"Just…my wrist, I think," she finally said, and he realized she was answering his previous question.  "My leg hurts like a bitch, but I don't think it's broken."

"Can you walk on it?"

"I don't know."  It was killing her to admit to the weakness, her eyes darting around to look at anything but his face.  "But it wouldn't have to be that far, right?  Just back to the road so that we can hitch a ride."

"Which is god knows how many feet up and away," he countered.  Spike gestured to the swirling snow.  "Can't tell for sure through the bluster, but looks to me like we rolled a fair bit.  It's goin' to be a climb to get back up, I think."

"Oh."  There was silence for a long moment, the world devoid of any sound but the rushing of the wind.  "I'm going to have to wrap this up," she finally said, tugging at the sleeve over her injured wrist.  "There's a first aid kit in the trunk.  Can you get it?  I'll take care of this, while you get our things together."

"If you're thinkin' of turning me into your own personal packhorse, Slayer, think again---."

"I meant weapons, you jerk," she bit out.  "And blood for you.  We could end up at some gas station in the middle of nowhere while we wait for someone to come get us.  I'm just trying to…be prepared."  Her initial bombast was fading, and Spike could see the strength waning from her countenance.  Already, she was starting to tremble from the exertion of holding her own against him, and he straightened to go to the rear of the car, rather than argue with her some more.

*************

Buffy's lashes fluttered closed for a moment as she leaned against the headrest, listening to Spike curse as he fought with opening the trunk.  Not so sure this was worth the pass on Aunt Darlene's visit, she thought listlessly.  Next time, I just keep my big mouth shut when Giles has a personal problem.

Giles.  Spike said he was gone, and her own quick glance to the seat beside her only made the confirmation ache even more.  What if he got thrown from the car? she wondered.  He could be lying out there right now, hurt, or stumbling around to try and find her.  Or dead.  That prospect hurt the most.  More than anything, she wanted to throw off her seatbelt and go off in search for him, but in spite of what she'd told Spike, she knew she wouldn't make it ten feet in the storm on her own.  They would both be dead and that would be the last thing Giles would want.

The back of the car bounced as the trunk dropped shut, and Buffy turned her head in time to see Spike reappear at the door, the black of his coat making him stand out against the snow.  She had to stifle the hysterical giggle that rose to her throat.  Usually, it was the bleached hair that turned him into one huge beacon of "notice me!"; now, it and his pale skin melted into the white, almost making him seem like the headless horseman swooping in to her side.  It was kind of funny, if she thought about it.

"You're an idiot, you know," he was saying.  He gestured toward her coat. "Fashion statement or no, I don't think a little piece of cowhide to show off those perky breasts of yours is worth dyin' for, do you?"

It took a moment for her to realize he was referring to her suede jacket, and Buffy's good humor immediately vanished.  "Funny talk…c-c-coming from the…S&M Ken d-d-doll…" she managed.  

Her teeth were starting to chatter, clicking loud enough for him to hear over the wind, and Spike just shook his head in disbelief.  "Quipping to the end," he muttered, and as she watched, he slid his arms out of his duster.  "Here," he said, holding out the coat, waiting for her take it.

"What?"

He grimaced, dropping the leather unceremoniously onto her lap.  "Unlike you, I don't need to be worrying about my internal furnace going tits up at a little spot of cold.  Just…don't bleed too much on it.  It'll take me ages to get the Slayer smell out of it as it is."

Warily, she watched as he proceeded to toss her the first aid kit as well.  Something was making the vampire edgy, more so than normal, and that, in conjunction with the massively weird saving-the-Slayer routine, was making _her_ edgy.  She didn't like edgy.  She liked being edge-free.  Of course, she also liked not being in pain, or being out in the middle of nowhere in a freak snowstorm with only a vampire determined to kill her at his first opportunity for company.  Which just led her back to her original question of why exactly he didn't run when he had the chance.

She was taking too long to bandage her injuries.  "Fuck, Slayer," Spike swore as he knelt at her side, yanking the kit from her good hand.  "At the bloody rate you're goin', we'll both be icy treats by the time you're done."

Quickly, his deft fingers wound the bandages around her wrist, immobilizing it and causing the stabbing pains in it to dull to a throbbing ache.  Buffy moaned at the immediate satisfaction it gave her, but ignored the curious frown he shot her before he bent to tend her leg.  Don't care, she thought stubbornly as the glide of his hands across her calf brought almost instantaneous relief.  Less pain equals good.

She'd managed to undo her seatbelt by the time he was done, and was already sliding her body out of the seat before he'd stepped away.  Each move made her wince, and as soon as she put her full weight on her injured leg, Buffy felt her knee give out from the excruciating pain.

Spike's arm was around her in an instant, grabbing the duster from the car seat and wrapping her in it before scooping her against his chest.  Immediately, she buried her face into the crook of his neck, using his body to shield herself from the worst of the storm.  Oh, this is better, she thought drowsily, and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Much, _much_ better…

*************

At the first touch of her exhalation, Spike stiffened, holding himself rigid as he felt her body's rhythms pound against his flesh.  In spite of her lowered temperature, her breath was warm, flushing his skin and tickling beneath his shirt in delicious licks that the cold couldn't touch, and he flinched when the memory it evoked roared its ugly head behind his mind's eye.

Red's bloody spell.  All those moments in Rupert's chair with hot little Slayer all curled around me, like she was tryin' to get inside my skin.  Like she was tryin' to fuckin' wear me like this month's latest vogue, only it wasn't meant to be a static thing, no, she had to be constantly crawling and touching and draping and rubbing like if there wasn't an inch of her not covered by me, she'd crumble into dust.

Like I wasn't tryin' to do the exact same thing to her.

Though it hadn't been that long since their faux engagement---just a few weeks, really, what's a few weeks when one's lived over a century?---he'd managed to sublimate most of the memories to his subconscious, only reliving them when they appeared again in his dreams, usually with some permutation that made the ending a tad more hospitable.

But this…the actuality of Slayer skin and Slayer breath and Slayer blood…so close and so maddening with its singsong taunts of "here I am, come and get me."  He'd been able to largely ignore his desire to taste her while he set about to the tasks at hand, but now, his demon raged inside his skull, demanding satisfaction though it knew it wouldn't get it.  That didn't mean it stopped the little bugger from trying to goad him to try her---just a little lick, licks won't hurt her, no hurt no foul and the chip stays zap-free---and it was taking all his concentration not to drop Buffy in the snow and just say to hell with the whole situation.

"Spike…" she murmured, the lone syllable drawn out as if she wanted to make it two, all sweltering and coaxing along his skin where she breathed it out onto his neck.

"Yeah, Slayer?" he replied gruffly.  His amber gaze began scanning the clouds of snow around him, trying to discern which direction to go to get to the road.  Another car coming along would save both of them a world of trouble right about now.

"Thanks…"

The tension in her limbs dissipated as he felt her lapse back into unconsciousness.  Just as well she's out like a light again, he thought.  'Cause what in the bleedin' hell do I say to that?  Gratitude from the Slayer was more confusing than the dreams that plagued his sleep.  Whatever gods had mucked up the arrangement of hate/hate between them were goin' to get more than a kick in the pants if he ever caught up with them, that was more than certain.  

Except, of course, she would have nothing to be thankful for if he just stood there like a complete git and let the snow pile up around his ankles, freezing both of them to death.  Well, her to death, him to just someplace extremely uncomfortable.

"Right," Spike muttered.  Another sweep of the area around the car and he was off, head bowed against the wind, Buffy's wrapped body nestled against his chest.

*************

From the safety of distance, she watched as the vampire began to march away with the Slayer in tow, the duffel of supplies he'd taken from the broken vehicle slung over his opposite shoulder.  One of his savage kicks had popped the trunk, and she had observed in wonder as that savagery had vanished with his tending to the wounded girl, replaced with a matter-of-fact gentleness that had more than gotten the job done.

"Huh," she mused out loud, head tilted, eyes dark in begrudging admiration.  Yet another surprise from the chipped demon.  The others had argued with her about his inclusion, and she was astonished to find that their assertions were becoming truth.  She hadn't even had to step in to convince him to save the Slayer; he'd done that inexplicably and completely on his own.  She was going to have to eat some serious crow if everything turned out all right in the end.

He passed within yards of her vantage point, oblivious to her presence, and when she realized he was heading toward the road, she frowned.  That wouldn't do.  The road was beyond their protection.  Something would have to be done about that.

*************

The steep face of the embankment stared back at him through the white squall, and Spike gritted his teeth at his impending scramble.  Up and over, mate.  Car came down, you can sure as hell go back up it.

It was easier said than done, though.  Perhaps if he'd been unencumbered, he wouldn't have given the climb a second thought.  Actually, no perhaps about it.  The rise would've been nothing if he were on his own.  Problem was, he wasn't.  He had Buffy in his arms, and with each second that passed, the trembling rooted deep inside her thin body spread, emanating outward and vibrating into his flesh, even through the layers of her clothes and his coat.  If she was going to make it, she was going to need to get to someplace warm.  Fast.

For a brief second, he considered taking her back to the car.  He could probably hotwire the thing, keep the engine running for her while he went to the road and hailed for help.  She'd be there if Giles showed up as well, and Spike wouldn't end up on the short end of a stake in case the Watcher took his helping her the wrong way.  In the way of options, it might be the best one when it came to saving the Slayer.

There was a third option, one that niggled in the back of his brain, but Spike was ignoring it as best he could.  Just leave her, it whispered.  Every vamp for himself.  But listening to it meant failure at what he'd set his mind to.  It meant his gut was wrong.  It meant denying Buffy what she deserved.  

And giving it credence was not something he was prepared to do, even if the question of just when he'd gone soft on Slayers made him want to rip out his own heart.

So, his boot gritted through the piling snow, and he shifted Buffy in his arms to reach for the branch of a nearby tree.  It was then that the first waft breathed along the undercurrents of the wind, prickling his nose with sulphur.  Spike froze, his spine stiffening as his golden gaze swung around.  All he could see were the snow and trees, both thick, both impenetrable, and for a moment, he thought he'd imagined the sensation.  He was almost ready to turn back around and face the embankment when another draft of the scent made his nostrils flare.

No.  He hadn't been wrong.  Someone, somewhere close, was burning something.  A fire.

That meant life.

That settled it then.  Option number four.  He'd get the Slayer to someplace warm and hope that they had a phone.  As he began the trek deeper into the woods, he felt her shift within his arms, mumbling something he didn't quite catch into his coat.  Automatically, his hand came up and stroked the nape of her neck, fingers like ice where they met the small hollow, her shivers lessening for a moment at his touch.

"'S'alright, Slayer," Spike murmured.  "Just a little snow.  Not even worth noticin'."

*************

Every time she felt darkness start to overwhelm her, the smell of Spike's duster sparked her back to the real world.  Sharp and oddly soothing in its familiarity, she was grateful for the added protection it provided, even if the ramifications of Spike offering it in the first place gave her more questions than answers.  He could've run, she realized.  Or worse, he could've killed me.  I was already bleeding so it probably wouldn't have hurt if he finished off the job.  Plus, he was vamped out.  Had he tried before she came to?  Was that the reason for all the bumpies?

She didn't know, and she didn't have the strength at the moment to ask him.  Not that talking seemed to be a problem for him, however.  He kept muttering to himself, phrases drifting in and out of her consciousness, things that didn't make sense and hurt her head trying to fathom.  But, he was moving, and as long as he was moving, she had to believe that they were getting somewhere, that every step took them closer to the road, closer to civilization, and further away from weird vampires with Slayer fetishes.  Except, he was going with her so maybe not further away, but…

Shuddering against the confusion that was clouding her mind, Buffy tightened her grip around his neck, wincing when her wrist was jostled and a brilliant stab of pain shot up her arm.  Immediately, Spike responded by shifting her weight, taking care not to aggravate any of her injuries, and slid her arm from around his neck so that it was nestled between their bodies.  She felt the hard planes of his chest beneath her, the thin cotton of his tee providing only the most cursory of protection, and swallowed at the sudden heat that rose in her veins.  You've touched that chest, she reminded herself.  Not that she really needed reminding.  The events during Willow's spell had a way of poking their head out from her memory at the most inopportune times.

Like now.

She realized he was slowing then, his footsteps growing heavy, and risked lifting her head to see what could've lessened his pace.  The sharp angles of his face disappeared into ebony shadows in the storm, and his eyes were dark pools in spite of their amber glow.  They were fixed straight ahead, staring at something in the distance, and Buffy twisted in his arms to see what it was.

A rustic cabin loomed amongst the trees, its porch half-hidden by all the fauna.  Several windows glared back at her, devoid of life, but one on the ground floor seemed to dance and flicker in her vision, as if something on its other side shimmered in expectancy.  Flashes of orange made her heart leap with hope, and her eyes slid automatically to the roof, searching the outline against the sky for the proof that she needed.  

It took only seconds to find, surprisingly enough.  And as she inhaled, the aroma of fresh fire and smoke warming her from the inside out, she heard Spike mutter under his breath, "Home, sweet home…"

To be continued in Chapter 3:  The Fire Is So Delightful…


	3. The Fire Is So Delightful

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike awoke from the accident to discover a wounded Buffy and a missing Giles, and together, Slayer and vampire are braving the storm for shelter, only to find a cabin in the woods…

*************

She wanted him to run, to escape the bitter winds that somehow managed to find every crack in her clothing to sear her in ice.  Her skin, where she could feel it, burned from the cold, but with sanctuary only yards away, Buffy didn't understand why Mr. Whaddaya-mean-it's-not-Saturday-yet was dragging his boots to get there.  Every step he took was achingly slow, and by the time she turned back to face him, her mouth was already open to snipe at him.

"Now would be a perfect time to show off that vampire speed you're so hot-to-trot about," she said.

Instead of picking up his pace, he halted, golden eyes glaring down at her.  "Next time you're marching through six feet of snow, against the wind, toting a Slayer who's scarfed down one too many donuts during her so-called research parties, we'll talk about who's not so fast," Spike growled.

"You forgot about it being uphill both ways," she said dryly, and then stopped, a small pout jutting her lower lip.  "You really think I'm fat?"

Rolling his eyes, he resumed his pace, head bent against the oncoming gusts.  "You're a piece of work, Summers," he muttered.

She held her tongue, gaze intent on his features.  Spike might not be bothered by the cold, but that didn't mean it wasn't having an effect on him.  The normal pallor of his skin had taken on a more ashen cast, the hollows beneath his cheekbones even more stark in their angularity.  Snowflakes clung to his dark lashes and brows, thickening them to the point where imagining some sort of demon yeti didn't seem so farfetched to Buffy, and the lower curve of his lips was beginning to turn blue.  She hadn't seen him look this bad since the day he'd shown up on Giles' doorstep, and that had been pretty bad.  She was almost feeling guilty about being the reason he was out in the storm in the first place.  Almost.

Though it had to be the wrong side of midnight, Spike's tread was heavy as he clomped up the stairs to the porch, each step knocking off snow that had accumulated around the soles.  "You're g-g-going to wake everybody up," Buffy admonished as he approached the door, though it lost some of the harsh effect she intended by her teeth clickety-clacking away.

"And lettin' 'em lie about with their sugarplum fancies is _exactly_ how we want to get 'em to come and let us in," he replied.

"Oh.  Right."  She hated how stupid he made her feel sometimes.  But when he lifted his fist to pound at the heavy wood door, she spoke again.  "Wait."

His exhalation was one of frustration, but his muscles stilled anyway.  "What is it now?" he snarled.

Wordlessly, she pointed to the ridges that stood prominently from his forehead, quirking her brows at the same time.  A second passed, then understanding burned inside the gold, and Spike gave his head a quick shake as he forced the demon to recede.

"Better?"

"More likely to get us in," she answered.

There was a hitch in the arc of his arm as he glanced down at her, her not-quite-a-compliment taking him by surprise.  Buffy kept her mouth shut, just looking into the familiar blue, and waited as he pounded at the door, not completely certain why she'd phrased it that way either, but having neither the strength nor the attention span at the moment to care.

The sound of his pounding was smothered by the screeching wind, but even when he beat at the door a second time, the seconds ticking by in direct opposition with the tempo of the swirling snow around them, Buffy felt her hope begin to fade.  Could it be that nobody was home?  But what about the fire?  Wasn't leaving one going a hazard or something?  So close and yet so far, and her body was crying out for the cushiony embrace of the heat enclosed in the four walls, screaming if she would let it, pain from her injuries and lethargy from the cold battling to subdue her once and for all.

Taking care not to jostle her more than he already was, Spike leaned over to peer into the window, and Buffy craned her neck to try and see what it was he was witnessing.  He straightened before she had a chance, and looked down at her with an amused determination in his eyes.

"Looks like the three bears are out for the evenin'," he said.  "Feel like a little b&e, Goldilocks?"

She wanted to argue with him about the wrongness of what he was suggesting, to tell him how not surprised she was that he would suggest criminal activity when the legal way didn't pan out.  She wanted to, really.  But when a snowflake flew into her eye, stinging her eyeball and making her lids squeeze shut against the squall, she remembered the trek into the woods they'd already done, the pull of Spike's feet as the drifts had started to slow even him down, and the words refused to come.

Besides, maybe they were only sleeping.  Maybe as soon as Spike opened the door, some guy would show up in an old-fashioned nightshirt with a loaded rifle under his arm and a curlered wife hugging the wall behind him, ready to defend his property against the invading marauders---.

Then again, maybe she should just stop thinking.  And watching "Little House on the Prairie" marathons with Willow.  Neither was really helping her out here at the moment.

He took her small nod in stride, but it was only after he'd already turned the knob---without even having to break any lock, Buffy noted---that the reality of their situation truly hit.

"Spike," she said as he pushed open the door.  "You're going to have to put me down."

"Thought your leg couldn't take it," he said, hesitating.

"I don't think we're going to have much of a choice."  The heat from the interior struck the side of her face with a mother's caress, and she almost moaned from the exquisite torture of feeling her cheek tingle from the newfound feeling.  "If the owners aren't here, you're not going to be able to go in.  No invite, remember?"

"Oh."  It was obvious the possibility hadn't occurred to him, and the guilt Buffy had almost felt earlier came flooding back with a vengeance when his eyes fell to the threshold.  "Well, guess that about tears it then, doesn't it?" he commented, but there was an odd emptiness in his tone as he did.  "Just make sure to pass me back my coat once you're all snuggled in.  I'll find me a shed or something to hole up 'til rescue arrives."

"OK," she agreed, her voice somber.  "And I'll find some blankets, too.  I'm sure whoever lives here will understand."

Silently, Spike dropped the arm that cradled her knees, allowing Buffy to stretch her weary muscles and right herself on the doorstep.  Avoiding putting any weight on her injured leg, she grasped the edge of the entrance and leaned forward to call out, "Hello?  Is anybody home?"

"Well, _I_ could've done _that_," she heard him drawl behind her.

She couldn't hear a thing from inside the cabin, only the crackle of the wood in the fireplace she caught on the periphery of her vision.  "Hello?" she called again, this time braving a small hop forward.

Her leg brushed against a jutting beam, and the unexpected jolt sent another cleaverful of pain ringing through her muscles, her body collapsing of its own accord as if rolling herself into a tiny ball on the floor was its only escape from the agony.

She never hit.  Before she could make contact with the burnished grain, strong arms wrapped around her waist, tugging her up and away, and Spike's annoyed tone filtered to her ear.

"Jesus, Slayer, you're as bad as a day-old kitten."  The comforting solidity of his chest---and since when did she start thinking of Spike's chest as comforting?---met her cheek, and she found herself staring up into the aggravated blue of his eyes, nestled once again in reassuring peace.  "Remind me to tell Rupes when we catch up to him that good old-fashioned book balancing does wonders to keep his Slayer from falling on her ass when she gets a little boo-boo."

It wasn't meant to be funny, and the reminder of Giles and the fact that he wasn't with him stung like a bitch, but Buffy couldn't keep the smirk from twisting her lips, or the laugh from bubbling forth.  "Boo-boo?" she said.  "Big Bads use words like…_boo-boo_?"

"Don't get me started on what kind of words get bandied about.  Think that might be a little war you'd be inclined to lose."

"Because using bloody and sodding in every other sentence makes you the king of literacy, right?"

"It's colorful."

"It's annoying."

"It's---wait a minute."  He frowned, and looked down at his feet in confusion.

"What is it?"  Twisting her neck around, Buffy looked over the side of his arm, and saw his heavy boots fidgeting in their place on the floor.  "Did you step on something?"

"No," he said, as if he was speaking to a child.  "I'm in.  Looks like I didn't need an invite after all."

He was right.  In reaching to catch her, he'd crossed the threshold and now stood a good two feet inside the open door, the snow already melting from his boots to puddle along the wood floor.  All thoughts of their arguing vanished as the circumstances sank in, and Buffy lifted her head to scrutinize the room.

"I guess this means it really is deserted then," she murmured.  It didn't make sense, though.  The place looked lived in.

Most of the design was open-plan.  One wall sported a large fireplace, in which the fire they'd smelled outside was burning happily away with a large supply of wood in the scuttle next to it, and a large deer head was mounted over the mantle.  A couch was positioned in comfort before the blaze, but the only other furniture in the room was a table and chairs resting in the corner that was meant to be the kitchen.  The usual rustic appliances were there---a small fridge, a gas stove---with cupboards hewn from the same wood that comprised the walls and floor.  Other than the entrance, there were two doors, both closed, and a ladder led the way into what looked like a loft.

Yeah.  Lived in.  Except it couldn't be if Spike could just walk in without the usual allowance.

She waited for his usual sarcastic quip, but it never came.  Instead, he marched over to the couch and dropped her into its corner, letting the duffel fall from his shoulder at the same time.  "I'll find some blankets for you," he said.  "Let you warm up a tad."

That much nearer to the fireplace, and the heat it radiated was already thawing the icy crust that Buffy imagined had formed along her skin.  Her head drooped against the padded arm, and she waved unenthusiastically toward the door.  "Cold," she complained.  "Close, please."

He rolled his eyes, but did as she instructed, his heel sliding in the melted snow at the entrance.  "I'll see if there's a phone in the other room, too," he said, heading for one of the closed doors.  "Don't see one lyin' about in here."

"OK."  She didn't feel like arguing any more.  She didn't feel like anything any more.  Each lick of the fire crackling behind her head was melting her muscles, and she could feel herself sinking into Spike's duster, the leather caressing and molding to her limbs, as the world began to spiral around her.  Nothing seemed to matter more than the almost painful liquification of her body, each digit coming back to life while her head seemed to fall into an oblivion.  

_Fire good_ was her last cognizant thought before exhaustion swept her away.

*************

No phone, but plenty of blankets and a bed someone could get lost in.  Or a pair of someones, if the opportunity presented itself.  Even a trio could manage to find their own niche beneath the down quilts, but Spike figured that his chances for anything like that here were as good as the soddin' Blue Fairy showing up and spelling the chip away.  Wasn't going to happen in his immediate future, not with the Slayer just on the other side of the door.

Standing in the doorway, his head tilted as his gaze flicked over the space.  The bedroom was deceptively large, with a fully functioning bathroom that he hadn't expected to find behind the second closed door.  It was stocked as well, toiletries and towels to come out his ears if he wanted, with a rustic charm usually reserved for New England getaways.  All it's missin' is a rocker and Whistler's mother, he thought, and shrugged as he went back into the main room.

He stopped as soon as he saw her on the couch.  She had fallen asleep, his coat coiled tight around her body, her hair tumbling across her face.  Tinges of pink were starting to return to her cheeks, and in the flickering orange of the fireplace, Spike would've sworn on a stack of corpses that Buffy was almost glowing.

"Bugger," he swore under his breath.  So much for getting his coat back.  One move and she'd wake up, and in her tired state, she'd probably lash out at him in violence, regardless of her injuries.  Probably break my nose again, he thought irritably as he closed the distance between them.  Wish I knew what the cow's problem was with my nose.  Or better yet, wish I could just give her a taste of her own medicine.  See how she likes it, havin' part of your face smashed in on a regular basis.

His nose pricked as he approached her.  Blood.  Sharp and tangy and most importantly, fresh.  She must've started bleeding again.

A quick glance over her face told him that it wasn't coming from her head wound, so his eyes automatically drifted to her other major injury, and saw the crimson stain spreading along the fabric of her pants.  Great.  She'd re-opened the gash, and now she was bleeding like a stuck pig all over the only comfortable-looking piece of furniture in the joint.  With a sigh, Spike grabbed the first aid kit from the top of the duffel and knelt at the side of the couch, lifting her leg carefully so as not to wake her.  He was going to have to rip the material, but he figured she'd rather live with a floppy trouser leg than watch her life flash before her eyes in a blaze of bloody glory by bleeding to death.

He left her shoe on.  Easier than stripping her down and frankly, once his cool fingers came into contact with her slim ankle, he decided it was probably safer as well.  Each brush of his skin against hers stole a little more of her heat and by the time he'd rebandaged the wound, more of his body was aflame than he was comfortable admitting.

He hesitated before setting her leg back down.  Her calf was smooth, well-muscled, with the instinctive grace of a thoroughbred colt, and other than the cut that was momentarily tamed, free of any other marks.  I wonder if she scars, he thought absently.  His thumb was stroking the delicate bone of her ankle, but he was unaware of it as his head tilted in contemplation.  Fights enough, has taken more than her share of battle wounds, she must have a trophy or two hidden away on that pert body of hers.

_"So, do I get to hear the story of how you got this?" she'd asked while curled into his chest, her fingertips dancing over the scar on his brow, the book of wedding invitation samples forgotten on their laps._

_"Memento from a Slayer in China," he'd said._

_She'd pretended to pout and he'd been instantly fixated on the quiver in that bottom lip, wondering how long he had to listen to her talk before going in and giving it another nibble.  "I don't like the idea of another slayer touching you," she'd groused all too prettily.  "That's my job."_

He'd growled at that, and yielded to the desire to kiss her, tugging her tight against him and feeling her tremble under the ardor of his caress.  And the issue of scars hadn't been brought up again.

His hand jerked back as if burned, and Spike rose abruptly from his seat, backing as far away as he could.  Bloody magic.  Always getting in the way, confusing the issue by turning the pair of us into a couple of drooling teenagers.  It didn't matter that she'd actually treated him nicely while they'd been engaged; he preferred her this way---sharp, both in tongue and mind, not simpering and fussing and phony like she'd been those few hours.  _Real_.  _Honest._  Even if she did hate him.

Being currently unconscious was good, too.

Still…he faltered from his pacing at the far end of the room, eyes drawn back like magnets to her sleeping form on the couch.  If he was going to dwell in the land of truth-telling…if he was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with one of Rupert's little gang, he could do worse than it being with Buffy.  She'd at least make it interesting.  And what was the point of it all if not to be interesting?

A small sigh escaped her lips, and as he watched, the Slayer pulled the coat even tighter around her.  Must be cold, he thought, and picked up one of the blankets he'd brought out from the bedroom.  He laid it over her without thinking, and then stepped back when she snuggled into it, her good hand tugging the hem up to her face as she tried to draw it closer.

Interesting.

That was definitely one word for it.

*************

It was the shivering that woke her up.

Quaking that seemed to start somewhere in the pit of her stomach.  Trembling that made her skin vibrate, made her eyeballs ache, made her jaw tense from trying to still.  All around her, too close and taking control and when did the world turn orange?

Her open eyes were trying to focus, but all Buffy could see was black and brown and red and orange, blending and churning along walls that didn't look familiar.  But they did look tall.  _When did everything get so tall?  _Her breath caught in her throat.  _I've shrunk!  Oh god, Willow's done another spell and I'm teensy tiny and if Amy gets out of her cage, she'll eat me and that wouldn't be---oh wait.  I'm lying down.  That's OK then._

She could feel the weight of blankets pressing her down, the smell of leather and smoke pervasive and pungent, almost like she could taste them.  

_I have leather blankets?  When did I get leather blankets?  Maybe they're Willow's.  Why would _Willow_ have leather blankets?_

It wasn't until she struggled to sit up that she saw the black coat fall open, the vague memories of the trek through the snow floating back to her awareness.  It was too dark to be morning already, the curtains drawn over the windows, the dying embers in the fireplace the only illumination in the cabin.  The bite to the air set a new round of shivers coursing through Buffy's body, and she pulled her legs up to her chest in an attempt to warm herself up.  In some faraway place, she was vaguely aware of a throbbing pain in her calf, but it was nothing compared to the ice that was chilling her from the inside out.

_Just wanna be warm.  Think warm thoughts.  Warm warm warm…what a funny word.  Kinda like worm.  Warm worm, warm worm, warm worm…nope, not working.  Find something warm to do the job for me then._

From the fireplace, a snap of the charred remains of one of the logs sent a spray of sparks dancing into the air, and Buffy swung her head around to stare into the leap of flames that it suddenly spurred.

_Ooo…fire pretty…_

*************

He'd found a well-stocked woodpile around the corner of the house.  Rather than sleeping, especially since they couldn't be sure that someone might not yet show up and claim the property, Spike had grabbed a book from a small shelf unit in the corner and read by the firelight until the flames got too low to do so comfortably.  Stoking it over the past couple hours hadn't really diminished the supply in the scuttle, but he'd quickly realized that they would run out of wood some time during the day.  Plus, with Buffy temporarily out of commission and his own sunlight issue, hauling more in was really the best plan.

His arms were laden when he kicked the door open, and he knocked his heel against the corner to loosen the snow that clung to his boot.  It was then that he heard the swish across the floor, and Spike looked up in time to see Buffy crouched before the unsheltered fire.

She must've woken while he was out, and risen from her place on the couch.  Still wrapped in his coat, she was propping herself up on her good hand as her injured one stretched toward the flames.  For a second, he frowned, wondering just what in hell she had in mind.  But when he saw the visible tremor in her slim fingers, and saw the fire jump up as if to shake her hand in an incinerating caress, he reacted instantly, dropping the logs and flying forward to pull her away from the blaze.

"What the fuck do you think you're doin'?" he started to demand, only to have the words die in his throat before they could fully come out.

Her body was shivering against his, her teeth starting to chatter, yet when she turned her face to look at him, even in the dim light Spike could see the heightened pink on her cheeks, her huge eyes haunting and fever-bright.

"Cold…" she murmured.

"You're sick," he corrected automatically, and pulled her closer as he rose and sat on the couch.  "Burning up.  It's probably from bein' out in that bloody storm."  Laying her back, he picked up the blankets she'd tossed to the floor and tucked them in around her. 

"Still cold," she complained.  Her eyes were following his every movement, sliding as he marched over to the door and shut it, never wavering even as he picked up the logs he'd dropped and toted them to the hearth.

"Fire just got a little low," he said, wiping the snow and dirt from his hands now that they were empty.  "You'll warm up soon enough."

"Are you cold?"

"I'm not the one who's sick."

"When I was little and got sick, my mom used to hold me and rock me until I fell asleep."

He stopped at that, eyes narrowed as he tried to read her face.  "I'm not your mum," he said carefully.  She wasn't really asking him to hold her, was she?  "And in case you haven't noticed, you're not so little any more either."

Her lip quivered.  "You _do _think I'm fat."

Frustrated, Spike ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how he'd ever managed to survive a century of listening to Drusilla's nonsense.  Oh yeah.  Because I loved her.  _So why am I still sittin' around here, listenin' to the Slayer?_

"You're not fat," he said out loud.  "I just said that to wind you up."

Without warning, she lashed out, kicking off the blankets that he had just laid on top of her.  "Hot now…" she muttered, and her fingers began to claw at the coat.

She was still burning up; he could smell the fever seeping from her pores.  There weren't any drugs in her first aid kit, so sweating it out and resting was her best option of getting over it.  "Now none of that," he chided.  Picking up the blankets, he bent to begin wrapping them around her again, only to feel the Slayer's good hand wrap around his wrist and tug him down on top of her.

In spite of being sick, she was still strong, and Spike ended up sprawled along her length, half on and half off the couch.  The full body contact between them elicited an immediate sigh from Buffy, and before he could stop her, she was nuzzling her nose into the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply.  "Better…" he heard her murmur.

He didn't understand what she was doing.  Moreover, he didn't understand why he stayed there, drawing up the blankets to cover both of them.  Maybe it was the furnace of heat she provided to warm him, better than a thousand fireplaces.  Maybe it was the iron grip that was still fastened around his wrist, holding on desperately as if letting go would mean disappearing into nothing.  Maybe it was the delicious weight of her head on his shoulder, the sense of being needed and useful again pervasive and intoxicating inside his veins.  

And maybe it was a little bit of all of them.

The soft flush of her breathing soon told him she was asleep, and too easily, Spike lost himself in the sensations of her pressed up against his body.  The ends of her hair tickled against his forearm, the musky scent of fever and blood and Slayer and Buffy mingling and drifting to his nose.  It was more hypnotic than the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, a drug he'd long ago forgotten how to appreciate, and within moments, he was fast asleep.

To be continued in Chapter 4: See Amid the Winter's Snow…


	4. See Amid the Winter's Snow

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike have found shelter in the cabin, but Buffy has developed a fever from her run-in with the cold…

*************

First…there was the warmth.

Not the smothering swelter that often accompanied the breaking of a fever, made even more uncomfortable by too much awareness of one's own skin.  No, this was the luxuriant satisfaction of being cocooned in downy tinder, wrapped and shielded and secure against invaders both outside and in, where the only thing in the world that seemed to matter was burying oneself deep within the swaddling and only coming out to eat.  And even that could be argued as unnecessary, given the right circumstances.

Then…there was the weight.

All around her, not just around a specific portion of her body, bearing her down without suffocating.  Blankets and clothes and more, and it was the more that brought the unsolicited smile to her lips, comfort to bask in as she felt the arm across her waist, the broad hand made warm where it had slid beneath her blouse, cupping the undercurve of her breast in proprietary.  More was around her lower half, a knee nuzzled between hers, a strong thigh pressing against the cleft between her legs, and Buffy automatically burrowed against it, firming the contact to spread a delicious glow within her muscles.

But then…there was the scent.

Peaty smoke that coated her throat, made the air thicker, more palpable, as if she could take it onto her tongue in cottony licks if she only tried.  Blood, dried not fresh, but almost so familiar that it was like background noise to the rest.  Leather.  Stale cigarette smoke.  And the unmistakable musk that was uniquely Spike.

Buffy's eyes shot open, her smile vanishing, the memories of the previous night rushing back with a clarity that left her breathless.  She was on the couch, turned in toward its cushioned back, buried under blankets and Spike's coat and most importantly, _Spike_.  It was _his_ leg that was pressing against her sex, and it was _his_ arm holding her tight against his chest…his _hand_ cupping her breast.  Now that she was awake, she could even feel his cheek resting against her hair.

_Oh god.  I'm spooning with Spike._

Her good hand clenched into a fist where it was curled against her chest, her body going rigid as anger flooded her system.  What the hell was he doing?  Where was her stake?  Oh, he was so dust when she…

And then she stopped, choking on her indignation with the advent of the memories.

She couldn't condemn him for it.  Even squeezing her eyes tightly shut couldn't change the fact that the recollection of her thoughts and actions during the worst of the fever burned with a crystalline fire on her retinas, as if she was watching it from across the room, and Buffy know remembered without a shadow of a doubt how she'd forced the vampire to hold her.

She'd been so cold.  She remembered the bittersweet flames gamboling and circling in the fireplace, and how hypnotic their dance had been, how nothing had seemed more important at the time than to get as close to them as she possibly could.  And then his arm, strong and powerful, pulling her away to leave her chattering with need, the ice inside her veins threatening to explode with a deluge that would leave little tiny Buffy pieces all over the floor if she didn't do something about it quickly.  All she'd wanted was for it to stop, and without heat to surcease the tremors, the only other option had seemed that from her childhood.

His initial refusal had made her angry, and wasn't that a boatload of weird because wanting to be held by Spike?  Not high on her list of fun things to do.  Or at least, it hadn't been until last night.  Yet, he hadn't fought her when she'd yanked him down, probably out of fear of opening her wounds again, though why that should've stopped him, she had no idea.  Sleep had quickly overtaken her, bringing with it dreams of pancake breakfasts with Spike and her mom that only left her feeling even more confused about what the hell was going on, and now here she was, awake with a sleeping vampire draped over her, feeling oddly at peace in spite of who it was, and questioning why she wasn't kicking him off the couch for good.

She wasn't even going to begin asking herself why he'd stayed with her in the first place.  That way could only lead to badness; she was sure of it.

_Be nice_, she could hear her mother say, and gritted her teeth in anticipation of doing the unthinkable.  "Spike?" she whispered.  She'd just ask him to get up.  She could be adult about this; she'd been sick and he'd just been nice enough to help her out when she needed it.  _Oh god, I just referred to Spike as nice.  This has to be an apocalypse or something in the making.  That's the only way to explain freaky weather and freaky Slayer thoughts._  

The single word did nothing to prompt any movement in the vampire, and gently, Buffy rocked her body, trying to jar him into waking up.  "Spike," she repeated, this time a little louder.

This time, she got a response, just not the response she expected.  A growl rumbled from Spike's throat, vibrating against her neck, and his grip actually tightened around her, his thumb brushing across her lace-covered nipple.  She gasped, the small stroke driving the muscles in her stomach to clench, and inadvertently pushed back against him in response, the frisson of pleasure it elicited in her momentarily outstripping her rational thought.

"Mmmm…" he murmured.  "Someone's finally warm, methinks."

The silken amusement in his voice sent goosebumps erupting along her exposed neck, and she felt herself begin to drown in the sensations.  But when his lips brushed the shell of her ear, when his tongue started to trace the delicate curve before nipping at the lobe in a coordinated attack with his fingers, reality came crashing back.  Stiffening, Buffy's elbow jerked back, connecting roughly with his solar plexus and forcing him to stop.  "Spike!" she said, all regard for being nice gone straight out the window.

She felt him lift his head, but no other part of him moved, his hand still firmly placed inside her blouse, his thumb…OK, she wasn't going to consider what his thumb was doing.  "Think your bedside manner's got a bit of work to be done with it," he said.  "Last time I checked, sucker punching the bloke who's just saved your life didn't fall under the Emily Post code of etiquette."

"And feeling up your patient does?"

His chuckle was more felt than heard, and it corresponded with a rough squeeze of her breast.  "You didn't seem to be complainin'.  Can't fault me for takin' what's bein' offered, now can you?"

"That's because I thought you were Angel."  The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them, a lie to her ears but the surest way she knew to cut through Spike's bravado.  

He immediately stilled, then pulled away within seconds, taking with him the bulk of the blankets as he clambered to his feet, leaving her feeling oddly bereft alone on the couch.  Rolling onto her back, she saw the stiff posture of his shoulders as he crossed the few feet to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and jabbing harshly at the dying embers.  Guilt rolled over her at the untruth she'd used to disengage from him, but she pushed it aside as she tried to sit up.  He'd asked for it; he shouldn't have been doing what he was in the first place.

"If you're back up to snuff, I'd like my coat back," he said.  No more warmth remained in his tone, his voice as cold as the room around them.  "Need to give it a proper seeing to.  Your blood's all over it.  The sooner I get the smell out, the sooner I'm not a walkin' target for half the demon population back in Sunnyhell."

"You don't get out of Giles' house anyway---."

"Doesn't change the fact that I want my bloody coat back."

"Then why'd you bother giving it to me in the first place?"  She was angry now, all her questions from their trek through the snow spilling forth.  "For that matter, why go to the hassle of getting me someplace warm last night?  I mean, I know you're all about the song and dance, Spike, but I always thought the wanting me dead part was real.  Seems to me, you blew a perfectly good chance to get what you're always running off at that mouth about."

"I'm beginnin' to think the exact same thing," he growled.  Tossing another log onto the fire, he shot her a glower of hate over his shoulder.  "Now take it off."

Common sense told her that now was not the time piss him off even further.  He couldn't physically hurt her with the chip in his head, but in her current state, he could get to her through the sheer act of negligence.  Leave her stranded once the sun went down, let the fire die out so she'd freeze to death, the possibilities were really endless.

Which was why, of course, her stubbornness kicked in and she did the exact opposite.

"I'm still sick," she complained.  "And it's still cold in here."

His eyes glittered as he stared at her, flecks of gold visible in the blue even at that distance.  "That's what the blankets are for," he said in a low voice.

"It's not like you need it anyway."

"My life's never been about _need_, Slayer.  It's about _want_.  And right now, I _want_ you to stop actin' like a selfish baby and give me my damn coat."

"But I'm---."

"Don't bloody say it."

"---sick," she finished.

She never even saw him move.  One moment, he was crouched before the fireplace, the poker dangling from his hand.  The next, he was bent over the couch, fists on either side of her head propping his body up as he leaned over her.  Spike's nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, and she literally saw his pupils expand, the black swallowing the irises as they swept over her face in an intimate inspection that left her breathless.

"So…that your reasoning then?  You want to hang onto my coat because you're still all…_hot_?"  His voice was suddenly casual---too casual, _oh crap_---and Buffy squirmed beneath him, ignoring the twinges of pain from her leg as she wondered why it was it felt like he was smothering her when their bodies weren't even touching.  Where exactly was he going with this?  

She wasn't going to let him see her weaken, though, and lifted her chin in defiance, staring him down.  "I'm still _feverish_, if that's what you mean."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You didn't know you were last night.  What makes you so certain you are now?"

"I just know.  Take my word for it, Spike."

"Oh, because a vampire puttin' his trust in the Slayer makes a whole world of sense.  Right."

She smiled, in spite of the butterflies in her stomach from still not knowing what game he was playing.  "Well, until you manage to find a thermometer in this place, you're not going to have much choice in the matter, now are you?"

He paused, still eerily calm though now a dangerous glint had appeared in his eyes.  "Give me a reason to believe you, pet."

_I'm not going to rise to his bait, I'm not going to rise to his bait._  Out loud, she said, "Because if you don't, I'll kick your ass."

He chuckled.  "Strong words comin' from someone who couldn't even walk through the door without fallin' on her face."

"I never asked for your help, Spike."

"No."  His face hardened.  "That, you didn't."

She could see what he was thinking, the remembering of how she _had_ asked him to hold her flitting across his face.  He'd only done as she'd requested---well, she hadn't exactly asked for the groping part but hello, he was a vampire, what did she expect?  And even if she didn't understand the why of it, it didn't lessen the fact that he'd gone out of his way to get her to safety when he could've just run.

"I did say thank you, didn't I?" she said, biting back the retort that rose automatically to her lips.  "Some parts of last night are still kind of fuzzy, so if I didn't, I'll…say it now.  Thanks."

The corners of his eyes crinkled as they narrowed, her words obviously taking him by surprise.  This close, the male scent of his skin that had been so pervasive when she woke returned, bringing with it the call of his caress, and her inner muscles tautened at its promise.  _OK, not the reaction I expected.  No!  Wanted.  I meant to say wanted._

"There are other ways to tell if you're sick, you know," Spike said.  Back to casual.  That can't be good.

"You're not just going to believe me, then."

"Call me funny, but trusting what comes out of that mouth of yours doesn't quite measure up to trusting what I can tell with my own body."

It took a moment for what he said to sink in.  "Huh?"

His head lowered, and Buffy shrank back into the padded arm of the couch trying to get as far away from him as she could.  She froze when his cheek feathered over hers, his audible inhalation along the side of her face too loud in her ear.

"Could smell it on you last night," he murmured.  "Now…not so much.  I'll have to find some other way to get a fix on your temperature."  He pulled back.  "Unless of course, you'll just be a big girl about it and pass over the coat like I asked."

Her lips pressed together, but she didn't move.  

"Y'know…"  His eyes swept downward, lingering on her torso and hips before dragging back up to meet hers again, making her feel naked in spite of the two coats and other clothing barring his view.  "…a century of ninety-eight point six experience makes _me_ a thermometer, in the absence of something proper to use."

"And again with the…"  Her query trailed off as the innuendo sank in, every thermometer-shaped appendage the vampire sported rifling through her imagination faster than he could've acted on, and the tightening in her stomach shot lower even as her head exploded in indignation.  "Lay one finger on me, Spike, and that'll be a finger you'll never see again," she warned.

"Who said anything about fingers?"  His tongue ran along the edge of his teeth, and this time, there was no mistaking the smile playing on his lips.  "If that's the way the Slayer mind works, it's no wonder Angel and the college boys didn't stick around for seconds."

Though in hindsight she realized she should've seen his gibe coming, Buffy went rigid at the sting of his words, their intent cutting deep.  How did…? she began to wonder, only to answer her own question before it was even finished.  Of course he knew.  Spike was evil, not deaf.  Angelus had probably said something, and as for the others, she and Willow had had enough conversations on Giles' couch for something to have been picked up by undead ears.

"Shouldn't worry that Clairol head of yours about it, though," he was saying, and it took everything she had to force her attention back.  "Can taste the heat just as well as touch it."

His head was bent before she could react, descending lower and lower, and all she could seem to focus on were those full lips and the imminent kiss he was going to take.  Her heart caught in her throat, impossible to breath or swallow, but when he tilted his head at the last moment, pressing his mouth to her forehead instead, her lashes fluttered closed, relief and anger and just a little disappointment mingling together to leave her stomach churning.  It was a kiss oddly evocative of those from her childhood, gentle but firm and riddling her in bewilderment, lingering for only a second---one that stretched into infinity by way of forever, it seemed to her.  Then…he was gone, not just gone from the swift caress but gone from above her, standing at the foot of the couch with eyes that were too dark for his face, all mirth wiped from his countenance as he looked back at her.

"Should sleep some more," he said, his voice neutral.  "Your fever's not as high as it was last night, but it's still there.  And if you want to bug out of this joint when the sun goes down, you'll need all the strength you can get 'cause I'm not carryin' your ass this time."

Pivoting on his heel, he was halfway to one of the closed doors before she spoke again.  "Where are you going?" Buffy called out.  He'd never been the kiss and run type before; what in hell was bugging him now?

"Shower," he replied tersely.  "You're not the only one who bled last night.  Got a certain stink I'd like to get off me."

*************

His face was a twisted snarl as he raked the washcloth across his skin, scrubbing at the dried blood around his cuticles until they began to bleed again from the force.  What had started out as a ploy to get back at the Slayer for her dig about Angel had escalated into something he hadn't expected, all evil intent evaporating the instant his lips had touched her skin.  He'd just wanted her to hurt, to _burn_ like her words had, just mess with her head and think he'd actually deign to kiss her without the benefit of magic, but the smell…the taste…fuck, the bloody _heat_…all too suggestive of the hours he'd spent wrapped around her, the peace that had soaked into his muscles for the first time in what seemed like centuries.

Not that he understood it for a second.  She was a bitch to him at the best of times---well, not exactly true, she'd been oddly polite and _nice_ at intervals yesterday---and she'd stake him in a second if she thought he was a threat of any kind.  So relaxing into her while they slept was the antithesis of what should've happened.  He should've never fallen asleep at all, or let down his guard.  And he damn well never should've gone so far as _touch_ her outside of a fist to her face.  

But he had.  And fuck if he hadn't actually enjoyed it until she made her little cut about thinking he was Broodboy.  Because now that he looked back on it, he didn't believe it for a second.  If she was so averse to him and everything he was, why was she hanging onto the soddin' coat?

Didn't mean it didn't still hurt like a bitch, though.

And it didn't make any of her other words any clearer, either.  Thanking him in the middle of his little game?  What the hell had that been about?  He'd almost sacked the entire thing then, the instinct to back off visceral and a struggle to overcome.  Of course, if he'd done that, he wouldn't currently have the taste of Slayer still lingering on his lips, all honeyed heat and soft…

Bugger.

With one last dunk of his head under the water to clear his thoughts, Spike stepped from the tub, grabbing the fluffy white towel he'd set aside and running it briskly over his skin to dry off.  Just have to get through the rest of the day, he thought with renewed determination.  Find a ride back to Sunnydale tonight and then that's it.  No more Watcher means no more free room and board.  No more reason for me to stick around the Hellmouth when I'm not completely toothless any more.  Get away from the Slayer once and for all; being around her lot's making me go soft in the head.

He grimaced as he looked at his dirty clothes.   Should've brought an extra change instead of the Slayer's weapons, he thought as he slipped them back on.  Not like she needs them anyway.  She's the most resourceful bird I've ever known.

He was still seesawing when he opened the door, curly head bowed as he dropped his boots on its other side.  "How much blood did you bring?" he heard the object of his internal battles say, and he jerked his gaze up to see her standing before the open fridge, his coat hanging off her slim frame, using the edge of the door to keep herself upright.

"What're you doin' up?" he demanded, ignoring her question as he marched to her side.  Gone was all thought of their earlier skirmish on the couch, replaced with a frustrated concern that she really was going to kill herself if she didn't start listening to what her body was telling her.  Even the light in her eyes seemed to say adios to the kiss, which in Spike's book, was definitely a good idea.  "Didn't you hear me?  You still have a fever, and I'm really _not_ in the mood for a repeat of last night."

"How much blood did you bring?" she repeated, and this time there was no mistaking the flare of anger in the her voice.  "I _told_ you to grab weapons.  This isn't meant to be a little vacation where you can just pig out at your heart's content, Spike.  We need to protect ourselves---."

"Don't get your knickers in such a twist."  He held up his left hand, fingers spread.  "Five bags.  That's what I figured I'd need to get through a day.  And I don't know why you're checkin' up on me by lookin' in there anyway.  I haven't even put 'em away.  They're still in the…"

His voice faded as she pushed the door open wider to expose the interior to his view, slim fingers grasping the freezer instead to steady herself.  It was stocked, just as the bathroom had been stocked, but what stopped him in his tracks was the top shelf, laden with bag upon bag of what could only be fresh blood.  There was enough there for a week's rationing and---.

"There's more in the freezer." Buffy finished the thought for him.  

His eyes were serious when he tore them away.  "You know those aren't mine, right?" he asked.  "Even if I _had_ only brought my stores---which I didn't---it still wouldn't be enough to fill that.  Those belong to whoever owns this place, which means---."

"---we're crashing a demon's house who's got as much of a food fetish as you do," she said.  "No wonder you could get in last night."

"So where is he then?"  Spike folded his arms across his chest.  "And why leave the homefires burning if he's not going to hang about?  Not that I'm fussed, mind you.  Something tells me a demon with a thing for stuffed pigs will be a doddle for us to take care of, if he pokes his head around again."

"Huh?  What're you talking about, Spike?"

He hooked a thumb toward the bedroom.  "Prat's got one sittin' pretty right in the middle of the bed, like it owns the joint."

She was past him in a flash, hobbling along and keeping as much weight off her injured leg as possible.  By the time he joined her at the bedroom, beads of sweat were already forming on her brow, her breathing shallow from the exertion, and Spike's hand shot automatically to Buffy's waist to help stabilize her.  He watched her face as she pushed open the door and peered inside, his confusion matching hers albeit for different reasons.

She seemed hypnotized by the bed.  "Can you…go get it?" she asked.  Her knuckles were white around the jamb, and he could feel her heartbeat racing out of control.  This wasn't the fever talking; this was something else, something that drove his feet to respond without any snarky questions, something that made her fingers shake when she took the stuffed animal from him and turned it over.

"Something's going on, Spike," Buffy said in a low voice.  "Somebody's playing with us.  I don't know how, I don't know why.  Maybe they even have something to do with the car accident last night, but…"

"And playin' with the stuffy tells you this…_how_, pet?"

She pointed to each spot on the toy as she named it.  "Mascara, from crying over stupid Parker.  Chocolate ice cream, from Xander deciding Slayer pigs deserved to be part of victory celebrations, too.  And that very inappropriately placed hole in his seam?  That's from Amy getting out of her cage and decided to make him her new chew toy."  She held up the pig to emphasize her point.  "This is Mr. Gordo, Spike.  This is _mine_."

*************

Their voices were a murmur from somewhere around him, but it was nothing compared to the pounding in Giles' head.  Like a thousand jackhammers spread around his skull, the pain reverberated with a tension that made him wonder just who had hit him this time and vow to give it back thousandfold.  Please be Spike, he thought.  That would at least give him twice the satisfaction.

Only then did he remember the accident, the pitching of the car as it had gone over the embankment.  That's it, he realized.  I must be in the hospital.  When he opened his eyes, though, he wasn't greeted with the sterile white he expected.  Instead, a wall of books loomed over the twin bed he was resting on, and the voices didn't belong to doctors but to two suited gentlemen conversing on the other side of the room.

He must've made a noise as he stirred because both men immediately stopped talking and looked in his direction.  The taller and younger of the two was impeccably groomed, close-cut dark hair and gaunt features giving him the effect of a scarecrow in spite of his tailored suit, but it was the other one who strode forward with a smile on his bearded face, a handkerchief appearing from his pocket to mop at his brow as if any sort of physical effort would cause his rotund form to burst.

"Ah, Endymion awakens," he said.  "We were beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come around, old chap.  We can't have the prize pupil sleeping through what could very well be the best holidays of his life, now can we?"  He chuckled as if he'd just made some sort of joke, leaving Giles staring at him in confusion.

He had a British accent, a Northerner who'd tried to posh it up with obvious years at Cambridge and failed miserably, achieving instead a mishmash that would fool no one except Americans who couldn't tell a Scot from an Aussie.  But being British didn't necessarily bode well, and gingerly, Giles sat up, realizing that he was still fully clothed.  "Who are you?" he demanded, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by his wince at the loudness of his own voice.  "And what in blazes is going on here?"

The speaker held up a fat finger.  "Ah, but the question isn't what _is_ going on here," he said, "but what _will_ be going on.  Do keep that straight, Mr. Giles, or I'm afraid that we shall _never_ find her in time."

To be continued in Chapter 5: Now the Jingle Hop Has Begun…


	5. Now the Jingle Hop Has Begun

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike are finding oddities around the cabin, like a stocked fridge of blood and Mr. Gordo perched on the bed, while Giles has woken up, alive but confused, in the presence of two strangers…

*************

At her request---and wasn't this weekend supposed to be about her waiting on him and not the other way around?---Spike helped Buffy over to the bed, where she kept turning the stuffed pig over and over in her hands.  Now that she'd told him it was hers, all he could smell was the scent of her on it, a hungry tickle in the back of his throat that made his senses tingle.  He'd been aware of it earlier, but had attributed it to the coppery blood that still hung in the air, too distracted with his raging emotions to properly discern the other odors that clung to the pink fake fur.

It wasn't just the pig, now that they were being smart about their situation.  Well, smart was probably generous.  More aware of things not quite right was more accurate, he reasoned.  Not that there was anything overtly obvious about the place, but with the suggestion that someone meant for them to be bunking in proper, Spike could smell the lingering effects of eau de Slayer coming at him from every corner.  There, there, and there, almost as if he was swimming in it, with Buffy coating every inch of him, hard and soft at the same time and…

Fuck.  Stupid shower didn't do anything but rejuvenate his sensory control.  Bitch made it perfectly clear how she felt about the incident on the couch, whether she wanted to believe her body or not, and damn if he was going to let himself fall into that particular trap of playing what if.

Even if the air did smell like fired honey, bubbling away to simmer beneath his skin.

While Buffy was lost in her examination of the toy, Spike's head tilted, his gaze sweeping the perimeter of the room before falling upon the heavy oak dresser.  The scents were stronger there, more concentrated, and he strode to it, the question lingering in the back of his mind.  Only a moment of eeny meeny miney moe with the small drawers that comprised the top row was required before he pulled out the one in the center.  

His body blocked it from her view, and not for the first time, Spike was glad about his lack of reflection in the mirror that hung over it.  A cornucopia of colorful lace and satin greeted him from the drawer's depths, and his nostrils flared as the scent proliferated, eyes flashing as they danced over the panties and bras that were strewn haphazardly inside, as if someone had just upended them into it from a basket or another drawer.  Immediately, his fingers lit upon a red silky number, barely there and carrying a perfume that made his skin creep in a yen hinting for more, and stuffed it into his jeans pocket before she could see.  Didn't know really why.  Just seemed like the right thing to do.  Especially after waking up with his fingers dancing over a lace-covered nipple.

"What've you found now?" Buffy asked from behind him.

Picking up a black thong, Spike hooked it on his index finger and began twirling it as he turned to look at her.  "Fancy these must be your unmentionables," he said with a smirk.  "I'll bet Soldier Boy never got a gander of this little number.  Something tells me he wouldn't have been so quick to hotfoot it outta your bed if you'd given him a little peepshow wearing this and nothing else."  He glanced from the thong, to Buffy on the bed, and then back to the underwear in contemplative appraisal.  "Well, maybe some heels.  Gotta do something to make those little stick legs of yours look longer."

Her furious blush was accompanied by a vicious throw of the pig at his head, a blow he easily ducked with a chuckle.  "Put it back," she ordered, waiting for him to comply before pointing at the other drawers.  "Are they all my things?"

It took only sliding a couple open to confirm they were.  Tops, sweaters, trousers, shoes…they practically spilled from the dresser and wardrobe when he opened them, each adding to the consternation of the Slayer until she finally held up a hand for him to stop.  "How is this possible?" she demanded.  "There's more of my stuff here than I took home for the holidays.  It's like someone picked up my dorm room and shook it out through a Buffy filter."   She was shaking as she inched her way to the edge of the bed, her legs swinging around the edge of the mattress, and Spike could smell the heat rising from her skin yet again.

"We'll have to suss it out later," he said, kicking the black boots he'd just shown her back into the wardrobe.  "Right now, you need to get some sleep before you're back on your quest for fire again."

"I'm fine," she grumbled irritably, and slapped at his hand when he tried to help her stand up.

"You're a wreck," he countered.  "About to become salvage material if you don't put your feet up."

"And you care about that exactly why, Spike?"

"'Cause it looks like we're both in for the long haul on this one."

"Really?  I don't see any of _your_ clothes conveniently laying around, or your Watcher suddenly AWOL."  She passed a trembling hand over her perspiring face, exhaustion creeping back into her voice in spite of only having risen.  "I hate this.  I hate feeling like someone thinks they can just play God with my life and tell me what to do.  I hate being so much out of control."

For a moment, his concern for the frustration she was venting overwhelmed him and Spike had to cross his arms across his chest, shoving his hands into his armpits, in order not to make a prat of himself by pulling her into a comforting caress.  "It's only for a few more hours," he said, deliberately softening his tone.  "Just 'til sunset and we can head for the road."

"Oh, please," she said roughly.  "Like you aren't loving every second of this."  

"What?  You think the nightingale gig is my cup of tea, Slayer?  You're cracked if you think I get my jollies waiting on you like you're the Queen of soddin' Sheba."

Her brows lifted, her eyes too bright from the fever.  "Because remembering how you took care of nutcase Drusilla for a century is purely a product of my fever-addled brain, is that it?"

Now he had to keep his hands tucked away to fight the urge not to punch her, to hell with what the chip might say.  "Totally different and you know it.  Me and Dru---."

"---endless love, blah blah, give it a rest, Spike.  Do you have any idea how old listening to you moan about losing Drusilla, Queen of the Cuckoo's Nest, gets?"

His eyes were cold.  "About as old as listening to you wake up wishin' you had old Angel as a cuddle toy," he bit out, and whirled on his heel to march for the door.  "Suggest you give that mouth of yours a rest, Slayer, if you don't want to be hiking it back to the road on your own."

"Where are you going now?"

Hesitating in the frame, he allowed himself one glance back at her now-flushed face.  "Sortin' my kit.  A fridge full of blood bags tells me I wasn't left out of this little equation, even if I wished to hell right now that I was."

His ill-temper chafed around the edges as he stormed from the room. Bitchy Buffy was back, though he was beginning to suspect it might have something to do with her lingering fever.  It didn't have to be so hard for either of them; she had proven the previous night that they could at least fake the goodwill needed not to kill each other.  And all she had to do was hold out until nightfall.  Once he got her back to the Hellmouth, he was out of her hair for good, though he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of telling her that just yet.  Let her stew in her own juices for awhile, he thought irritably as he headed for the loft.  Maybe the fever will burn the bitchy part of her away.

Spike had no doubts where he was going to find his clothes.  The loft was the only room, or space rather, in the cabin that he hadn't yet ventured into.  Too busy with the Slayer, and too at odds with his own warring emotions to do the recon bit any justice, but that was about to change.  Buffy wasn't the only one who loathed being waved around like a marionette.  Once the sun was down enough to venture out, he'd wrap her in every piece of clothing she owned and head out for the road.  A place like this couldn't be that far from civilization.

Under his feet, the floorboards creaked as he stepped into the loft.  It was just as spartanly furnished as the rest of the cabin---a single bed cosseted under the slightly raking roof with a rag rug at its side, a nightstand, an oak dresser minus a mirror.  On the top of the dresser sat a leatherbound book, and Spike frowned as he reached to pick it up.  It fell open to a ribbon-marked page, but he didn't need to look at the elegant handwriting to recognize it.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, and closed it back up again, turning it over in his hands to examine the spine.  His fingers caressed the worn spots on the tooled leather, but though the prints matched his exactly, he gained no satisfaction from the knowledge.  It was his, the journal he'd left behind in Brazil when he'd buggered off after Dru's chaos demon fling, the one remnant of his days as William that he'd consciously kept over the past century.  Nobody knew about it---nobody still living, that is; it was his one secret that he'd defiantly kept in the face of living with Angelus and Darla.  Not even Drusilla had known about it.  He might've told her about it in the beginning if she'd asked, but after seeing the possessive nature of Angelus' family, he'd deliberately held it back, reluctant to let go of the one part of him that nobody could touch.

And now here it was.  Staring back at him just as innocently as that damn pig had looked at Buffy.

Tentatively, he let it fall open again, eyes scanning the fine script as he re-read some of his rantings about Dru.  He frowned when the Slayer's name leapt out at him, the memory of how strong his anger toward her had been returning to his awareness.  Details of how he'd planned on killing her, how he was going to get the Gem and teach the little bitch a lesson she needed to learn once and for all, were spelled out as clear as day, and he cast a worried glance back at the ladder.  Wouldn't do for her to see this now; things were strained enough between them as it was.  The last thing he needed was definitive proof for her to stake him good and proper, regardless of his chip status.

Stashing it beneath the corner of the mattress, Spike returned to the dresser and began opening the drawers.  The t-shirts were meticulously folded, and the three or four pairs of jeans carefully laid out.  He snorted.  Someone took a helluva lot more time in putting _his_ gear away, that was for sure.  No way had it been this neat down in South America.  He'd pretty much trashed the place he'd been sharing with Dru before taking off for Sunnydale; if anything, his clothes should've been creased or torn from the way he'd left things.

Still…clean clothes were clean clothes, he thought as he began undoing his belt buckle.  And considering the state of his current garb, he wasn't going to waste any more time thinking about it.

************

All his comparisons to a weakened kitten were starting to make sense to her, and Buffy had to fight the hysterical urge to begin meowing into the empty room.  The fever was back; no way could she begin to deny that when not even the heavy quilt weighing her down could stop the shivering.  Having the familiar scent of Mr. Gordo against her cheek helped with the psychological part of being sick, but the questions his presence raised weren't doing anything to aid in the emotional.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to try and recreate a sense of home for her, bringing her things from the dorm and populating the cozy cabin bedroom with enough memorabilia to make it seem real.  Too real.  Like someone intended her to stay.  Was that what the accident had been about?  But who could have that kind of power?

Maybe it was a spell.  Magic that was twisting the way her head was working, making her see things that weren't really there.  Maybe she was actually at home in her own bed at that very moment, and the sounds she was hearing from the other parts of the cabin were just Mom making breakfast.  Pancakes.  Oh, pancakes sounded _good_.

As if it could hear her train of thought, Buffy's stomach rumbled, and she remembered the hunger that had driven her to the refrigerator in the first place.  She hadn't eaten since leaving Sunnydale the night before, but finding the blood had distracted her from her purpose.  No reason she couldn't go get some of the fruit she'd seen there now, she reasoned, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

The draft along the floor swirled around her ankles, and Buffy's eyes automatically searched the floor for her slippers only to come up empty.  Stupid host, she thought irritably.  Remember my black lace thong and can't seem to pack my slippers?  Talk about a whacked sense of priorities.

She hobbled across the room, her calf stiff from disuse, but not nearly as painful as it had been earlier.  The outer room was empty, and for a moment, she wondered where Spike was but quickly dismissed the thought.  Don't need him, especially when he's being all grouchy and mean.  

The memory of just who had started with the spite in the first place was squashed back to a dark corner of her brain.  One where she didn't have to think about it or acknowledge that it existed.

Her head was in the refrigerator when she heard him speak up.  

"Which part of 'you should rest to kick that fever' was so hard to understand?" he said with an annoyed drawl.

With an orange in her hand, Buffy straightened to look over the door of the refrigerator, and saw Spike leaning against the rail of the loft, watching her from the shadows.  He'd been in the process of changing his clothes but hadn't gotten to his shirt yet, and now his chest and head gleamed in pale splendor against the coal gloom behind him.  His face was half-hidden, all angles and eclipses that made it impossible from that distance to see what he was truly thinking, and Buffy unconsciously frowned at the not knowing.

"I was hungry."

"You could've asked me to get you something."

Her eyebrows shot up.  "What happened to not liking the Queen of Sheba routine?"

He shrugged.  "Like the bitchy Buffy routine less," he commented.  As she watched, he stepped to the ladder, descending and sauntering across the living room before she could catch her breath to reply.

They were silent as he reached past her to grab a blood bag, tossing it onto the counter before taking the orange from her hands.  "You don't have a monopoly on hating this, you know," he said as he began to peel it.  "You can whinge and moan about not havin' control 'til your little Slayer boots are last month's hot ticket, but until you've had a piece of plastic shoved into your brain tellin' you what you can and cannot do, don't think for a second I don't understand _exactly_ what you're feeling right now."

A flick of his wrist had the rind in the sink, and he turned darkened eyes back to Buffy, holding the fruit out for her to take.  Her hand closed over the orange, but her gaze was consumed by the barely controlled anger reflected back at her, his jaw tight.  There had been no mockery in his tone, just a resigned gravity quite unlike his usual attitude toward her.  Briefly, she wondered if she'd pushed him too far, and then realized with a start of surprise that the niggle at the back of her head was guilt.

"I never said you didn't," she said faintly.

"You never say a lot of things," he replied.  "Doesn't mean they're not true."

"So…what?  You expect me to be glad I'm stuck here with you?  News flash, Spike.  We don't like each other."

"Yeah…"  Quiet, hard, and for some inexplicable reason, sounding the exact opposite of what the word meant.  "'Cept we're all we've got."

She stared as he turned his back on her, grabbing a saucepan and ripping the top of the blood bag off with his teeth.  Each sinewy stretch made the muscles undulate beneath the alabaster skin, screaming silently at her consciousness until it was impossible to ignore any longer.  He was right, and as much as it made her feel like her insides had been scraped raw, she had to be ready to start putting some trust in Spike if she wanted to get back to her real life intact.  After all, he'd gotten her this far without asking for much in return; she could be a big Slayer and buck it up until they got home again.

Pushing the refrigerator door closed, Buffy leaned back against it and watched as he stirred the blood in the pan.  "What do you need from me, Spike?" she asked quietly.  It was as close to an apology she could manage, and they both knew it.  She just hoped it was enough.

He took a long time to answer.  "Nothin' you shouldn't already be doin' for yourself, Slayer.  You need to kick this bug right quick if you want to be up to par for trekking through the snow tonight.  That means resting."

She nodded.  "Got it."

"And whether you like it or not, I _do_ occasionally know whereof I speak," he continued, his tempo increasing as he began to warm up to it.  "So if I tell you to get your ass in gear, it'd be nice if you actually did it."

"O-kay," she said, though she was a little more hesitant with this agreement.

"Maybe try bein' a spot nicer while you're at it."  Now he was grinning, and though her first instinct had been one of annoyance, Buffy could tell that he was only kidding and began to relax.  "Would've thought your mum would've taught you not to speak ill of the dead."

In spite of herself, she snorted at his small joke.  "I suppose you think that includes giving you your coat back, because you know, that ain't happening."

"Like havin' me so close to your skin, eh Slayer?"  He smirked as he lifted his mug to his lips, and the knots in her stomach loosened further.  Even fevered, she could do banter.  It was nice to be in familiar territory again.

"I don't suppose you discovered anything new when you found your stuff," she said, changing the subject.  She began sucking on one of the orange sections, the juice dribbling down her chin.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then he was reaching out, his thumb catching a stray droplet of stickiness about to escape her chin.  "Only that whoever set us up raided my stash in South America," he said, and then licked the sweet syrup from the pad of his thumb.

Her skin was tingling where he'd touched her, but she shook it off, forcing herself to concentrate on his words.  "How do you know that?"

"Because what few bits I had in Sunnydale were stuffed in Rupert's boot.  I highly doubt they took everything to the cleaners to get 'em pressed and cleaned before depositing them here."  His aspect was thoughtful.  "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I'm beginning to wish we had your Watcher around to suss all this out.  Rupert would probably already have a theory."

"He'd probably have two," Buffy offered, and smiled when he grinned back at her.  "And one of them would probably be in one of those old languages that nobody speaks any more.  Like Latin.  Or Greek."

His mouth opened, and for a moment, she thought something derogatory was going to come out of it---he just had that snarky look to him---but Spike surprised her by closing it again and simply nodding his head.  "Right.  But, in the meantime, we'll just have to muddle our way through with our fists and fangs---."

"Hey!  Still human here!"

"Debatable, Slayer.  But, like I said, we'll just do what we do best.  We're both more the physical type anyway, right?"

"Right," she repeated.  After all, it wouldn't be the first time they'd had to work together.  If she could do it once, she could do it again.

*************

Giles' eyes were wide as he gaped at the man opposite him.  "Find her?" he parroted.  "Do you mean Buffy?  Is she hurt?  What's happened?"  Reflex drove him to stand, but the moment his muscles straightened, a stab of pain shot through his midsection, driving him back onto the bed, his hand clutching his stomach.  Through his shirt, he could feel bandages wound around his abdomen, and grimaced against the pain as he rode it out.

"You should really get some more rest, it seems," the older man said.  "I'm afraid we were rather overzealous in our belief that you would be sufficiently recovered from your ordeal to begin work today."

"Work on what?" Giles rasped through his discomfort. At least two of his ribs were cracked, of that he was certain, and more probably bruised.  Why he wasn't in a hospital, he had no idea.  "You still haven't told me who you are, what I'm doing here, or for that matter, what's happened to Buffy, and until you do, I'm afraid you'll most likely find me a little short-tempered."

"Ah, now this would be the infamous Ripper Giles I've read so much about."  He stuck his hand out, almost gleeful in his admiration.  "Silas Geen.  And our young friend over there is Paul McCallister."

"Geen."  He frowned, ignoring the extended hand.  "I know that name."

For a moment, the bluster faded.  "Oh, you might not, it's quite a common---."

"Tanzania.  Nineteen…eighty-six?"  Giles' scrutiny turned chilly at the other man's silence.  "You killed your Slayer."

Silas visibly blanched at the venom in his tone, taking a step back toward the door.  "In retrospect," he stammered, "I do believe we _were_ too hasty.  My apologies if---."

"What have you done with Buffy?"  As best he could, he squared his shoulders and tried to look menacing, even if the agony that ripped through his upper body made him feel like vomiting.  But if Buffy was in some kind of danger, he couldn't just stand idly by.  Or sit, for that matter.  And with someone like Silas Geen involved… "If you try and tell me that the Council has decided to step in again---."

"Things aren't what they seem," Silas rushed.  He was at the lone exit now, his hand on the knob.  "You should…lie down.  Allow your head to clear.  You took a rather nasty blow, I'm afraid, and it was presumptuous of us to assume you'd be ready so quickly."  He nodded.  "I bid you good day."  And with that, he disappeared through the door.

Giles watched as the other man sidestepped his way join his partner.  "I suppose you're a Watcher, too," he said bitterly.

"Oh, no," Paul replied.  His voice was soft and cultured, and a nervous smile ghosted on his lips.  "Trained for, yes, but I was…removed from the Academy before completion.  Silas is correct, Mr. Giles.  Things are not what they appear to be.  We mean you no harm."

"And Buffy?  Do you mean her no harm either?"

Paul shook his head.  "I'm not aware of our situation directly involving your Slayer," he said.  "She wasn't…with you…was she?"

It was genuine confusion that shone in the dark depths of the young man's eyes, and for a moment, Giles faltered.  "Yes," he answered carefully.  "She was.  In the car."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.  "But you were meant to come alone," he insisted.  "Why would you…she should be guarding the Hellmouth, not accompanying her Watcher for a ski weekend."

The accusatory innuendo made Giles bristle.  "Yes, well, circumstances change.  Her presence was required.  Are you telling me you have no idea where she is?"

"None.  As I'm sure Silas doesn't either---."

"Because a man who murders his charge is someone to be trusted," Giles said, the disbelief in his tone echoing around the heavy walls.  "I'm not prepared to cooperate with Council chicanery, not after what they---."

"We aren't _with_ the Council," Paul interrupted.  "You must believe me.  The Council has no idea of our arrangements, which is exactly as it should be."

The young man's earnestness was appealing, in spite of Giles' better judgment, and he regarded the man with a steady gaze.  "So, this has nothing to do with Buffy," he finally said.

"No."

"Your interest lies solely with me."

"Yes."

"Then tell me, Mr. McCallister, what is so damn important that you would go to such lengths to guarantee my presence?"

"Redemption, Mr. Giles."  His voice gained a sudden potency as a gleam appeared in his eye.  "This is about making amends."

To be continued in Chapter 6: The World in Solemn Stillness Lay…


	6. The World in Solemn Stillness Lay

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike have reached a tentative truce, each realizing that they need the other in order to stand up to whoever is playing them…

*************

Only the hush of a whispery wind skimmed across the settled snow, capturing its fine crust and swirling it in a silken powder over the wooden porch rails.  Like faint glitter, the landscape sparkled in response to the dancing firelight that emanated from the cabin's windows, and Buffy pulled her coat tighter around her, a small smile on her face as her gaze followed the snow into the midnight horizon, losing the vista through the thick of the trees.

She was cold, and was going to get colder still when they finally ventured out, but now, it wasn't the result of the fever.  That was mostly gone, according to Spike's estimation.  

_"You're not going to kiss me again, are you?" she'd asked warily when he'd approached the couch after her nap._

_He'd smirked.  "Hardly a kiss, Slayer.  You wouldn't have been able to speak quite so fast afterward if it had been."_

_"In your dreams, Spike."_

_"Think you'd be surprised what goes on in this head of mine.  Makin' that kind of a suggestion is only askin' for trouble."_

_"Because having you as a roommate isn't already trouble."_

_"And here I thought we'd reached an understanding."  His tongue had clicked in mock reproval.  "My unbeating heart is breaking, Slayer."  His fingers had settled on her forehead then, cool and firm, and he'd held them there for a long minute just watching her._

_"Well?" she'd finally prompted._

_"Well what?" he'd asked, not moving his hand._

_"Do I have a fever or not?"_

_"Is that what I'm s'posed to be doin' here?"_

_She'd batted him away and struggled to sit up.  "Never mind.  I'm feeling better."_

_Strong hands slid under her arms and helped her finish the movement.  "Gone enough for government work," he'd said._

_"Are you sure?"_

_"As I'll ever be."  He'd leered, his eyes falling to where the coat gaped open and the soft swell of her breast was exposed in the neckline of her blouse.  "'Course, if you'd like to be absolutely sure and try it again, we could always go the oral route.  Sure I could think of an appendage or two you could wrap those lips around---."_

_She'd rolled her eyes.  "Gee, predictable much, Spike?" she'd said._

Now, she waited, standing in front of the window while he bustled around behind her, the dying embers in the fireplace doing little to keep her warm.  Her leg was feeling better, wrapped tightly in fresh bandages, and she was wearing two layers of clothing to help protect her from the frigid air outside.  Outside of her broken wrist and the various bruises and scrapes adorning her body, she was feeling much stronger, and with Spike's claim that the road couldn't be too far away considering the amenity of the cabin, Buffy was confident she could make the trek without having to rely too much upon the vampire.

At least it wasn't snowing anymore.  On the other side of the glass, the world hung in icy stillness, blanketed in white for as far as she could see.  The heavy weight of snow made the trees even more skeletal, lacy and dense and blocking out the moonlight that peeked through the branches.

"What's got you so beguiled?"

She hadn't heard him approach, and now Spike's voice was almost at her ear, his body only a spare inch from hers as he joined her at the window.  "Snow pretty," Buffy murmured, and lifted a finger to trace invisible patterns on the window as she sighed.

"Think you've just got an eye for the shiny things," he chuckled.  "First, the fire, now this…"  His hand came up to the pane, fingers splayed in a crystalline outline against the glass.  "You're not changin' your mind, are you?"

"About leaving?  Not on your life.  Just…"  Another sigh.  "It's too bad I never got that ski weekend with Giles.  There's something to be said for winter wonderlands."

"Yeah," he agreed.  "They're cold."

Smiling, Buffy ducked under the arm that blocked her path and limped to the front doorway.  "Did you remember Mr. Gordo?" she asked as she picked up the duffel they'd brought from the car.

It was out of her hands before she could sling it over her shoulder.  "Take this one," Spike instructed, thrusting the other bag he'd packed at her.  At her confused look, he clarified, "It's lighter and got your precious pig in it.  Don't want to put too much stress on that leg of yours.  You'll be givin' it enough of a workout as it is."

"I guess."  She frowned, as a sudden thought struck her.  "How come clothes are so heavy?"

"They're not.  Weapons are."  With a swirl of black leather around his legs, Spike pulled open the door, and nodded toward the outside.  "Let's mush, Slayer.  The sooner we're rid of this place, the sooner we're back in the lap of the Hellmouth."

His boots crunched across the porch, the ebony stark against the snow, the familiar swagger in his stride oddly comforting as Buffy followed after him.  She'd relinquished control of the coat so that he would have some protection from the elements outside---though without the storm brewing, she wasn't sure he exactly needed it---and now it fluttered around his legs far more elegantly than she imagined it had on her.  Probably because of the height thing, she reluctantly admitted.  Even if Spike's not that much taller than me.

Of course, she'd been more concerned about using the coat for warmth as opposed to fashion when she'd been wearing it, she further reasoned, her feet automatically stepping into the deep impressions Spike left for her to trail.  And if she was being completely honest, it had been as much of a comfort thing as anything else.  Without the familiar surrounding her, barring Mr. Gordo's presence, it was reassuring to have the recognizable scent of leather and stale cigarette smoke and Spike clinging to her skin.  She'd never admit that to him; that was a boon he would taunt and take advantage of until she closed his mouth permanently and no way was she just going to offer that up on any colored platter.  And it weirded her out to no end to think that _Spike's_ presence could be in any way solacing, but…there it was.  She was weird girl Buffy, hanger out with the undead.

His path through the trees was circuitous at best, stopping every once in awhile to scan the surroundings, occasionally sniffing at the air as if he could smell the way back to the road.  Once, Buffy mimicked him, wondering just what it was he thought he could detect, and immediately felt everything in her nose crystallize from the cold.  Vigorous rubbing at it to make it go away was followed by a violent sneeze, prompting Spike to stop in his tracks and look back at her in concern.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she squeaked, and shooed him away.  "Just go."

After that, any sound that came from her direction made his gait hesitate, and more than once, the glance he shot her over his shoulder made her shiver more than the cold.  It was almost as unnerving as the silence was, the solemn quietude that saturated the forest and made each of their steps through the crusty snow echo inside her ears.

"Was it this dead when we came through the first time?" Buffy asked.

"Dunno," came the response.  "Was too busy tryin' to get you to someplace warm to pay much mind."  He stopped then, jerking back as if he'd run into someone, and she collided with the bag that hung from his shoulder with a muffled oomph.

"A little warning next time on turning yourself into a roadblock would be appreciated, Spike," she said with a grimace, rubbing at where her cheek had grazed across the rough fabric.  "Is this another scratch-your-head-and-sniff stops?"

He swiveled an annoyed gaze back at her.  "No, this is one of those something's blocking me from going any further kind of stops."

With a frown, Buffy looked past his shoulder at the trees scattered ahead of them, their wraith-like branches stretching into the night sky, the snow unbroken around their roots.  "OK," she said slowly.  "Not seeing the problem here."

"Seein' isn't always believin'," Spike muttered.  Grabbing her good wrist, he gently tugged her forward, holding her hand so that it was palm out and reaching toward the forest before him.

The shock jumped from nowhere, sizzling her skin so that she jerked free from his grasp.  "What is it?" she asked before tentatively stretching a fingertip out again.  "Please tell me it's not magic."

He waited until she was shocked again, and rolled his eyes as she repeated the yank backwards.  "All right, Pavlov," he drawled, "it's _not_ magic.  'Cept we both know it is."

"But why?"  Frustration made her voice rise, and she shifted the weight of her pack as she faced him.

"Why're you askin' me?" Spike countered.

"Because you're here and Giles isn't."

"And that makes me the expert then?"

"Not really, no.  But I'm not the one who's so big on the mojo.  I hit things.  That's my job.  I'm not supposed to be Nancy Drew.  I'm supposed to be Supergirl."

Her agitation quivered through the air, her cadences as ragged as her breath.  All she wanted was to get home; was that so much to ask?  She had half a mind to scream out at whatever magical thing---witch, warlock, overambitious college student---that she was mad as hell and wasn't going to take it anymore, but had the sneaking suspicion that whoever it was wouldn't care.

Pushing Spike aside, Buffy began marching parallel to the obstacle barring their course, every few feet reaching up to test the barrier, every few feet getting the same resulting zap to her fingertips.  Only when she'd distanced herself in yards did the vampire speak up.

"Care to share where you're going, pet?"

Her face was grim as she continued walking.  "I refuse to believe this goes all the way around the cabin.  There's got to be a break in it somewhere."

"Not that I'm disagreeing with you…"  The tamping of the snow marked his rushed footsteps as he hastened to catch up with her.  "…but you think you're up to that?"

Buffy whirled in her spot and faced him.  "Do I have a choice?  Unless you've suddenly learned how to sprout wings and fly us out of here, Spike, walking is the only way we're going to get back to civilization and find out what happened to Giles."

"And again, I'm not disagreeing with you."  His eyes were black pools as they skimmed over her features, and before she could react, he was leaning in, his head ducking as his cheek grazed over hers.  A slight tilt and his lips were sliding across her temple, not in a caress but firm and testing, and just as quickly, it was gone, leaving Buffy breathless and gaping and wondering why in hell she didn't just hit him the next time he did that.

"Your temperature's startin' to go up again," Spike said.  "I'll wager you don't get thirty yards before thinkin' the trees are the pretty in-thing now."

"I'm fine," Buffy snapped.

"You're not.  You're dragging your bad leg again, and you're turnin' into a liability, Slayer."

"So…what?  You want me to just give up?"

"No, I want you to go back to the cabin and let me do the checking.  Something tells me that you get much more of the electric fence treatment, and it won't make a difference how sick you are."

"I told you---."

Spike held up a warning finger.  "Is this the part of our agreement where you tell me to bugger off instead of listenin' to what I have to say?" he demanded.  "'Cause that bit of show and tell back at the cabin looked awfully convincing to me.  For some godforsaken reason, I was of the mind to believe you this time."

Her mouth opened to speak, but Buffy froze, the words choking in her throat.  With his face so close to hers, there was no mistaking the hurt anger in his eyes, but it was the question of why he'd be hurt by that in the first place that cautioned her so.  What did he care if she was stubborn about this?  She knew her own body pretty damn well, and if she thought she could make the walk, then…

Except she'd also thought the fire in the hearth was pretty enough to touch, once upon a time.  What if Spike was right and she was only going to make things worse?

"Why?" she asked, finally finding her voice.

His eyes narrowed.  "Why what?"

"Why are you offering?  Is this a one-upmanship thing?  Can't kill me so you'll get the blue ribbon for getting us out of here?"

A gleam appeared in the depths, his brow smoothing.  "That is not a road you want to walk, pet."

"You're just bound and determined to keep me off my feet, aren't you, Spike?"  She regretted it as soon as it came out of her mouth, the innuendo obvious even to her, and prayed to God that the vamp wouldn't take her up on it.

Obviously, God was on a coffee break.

Blue eyes raked over her body, slowing over her hips before falling to her boots half-buried in the snow.  "Could carry you back, I s'pose," he mused, almost nonchalantly though the huskiness of his voice betrayed more than she thought he wanted.  "'Specially since it's startin' to seem you're a bit partial to bein' in my arms---."

"Ha!" Buffy snorted.  "If I remember correctly, I was the one who kicked you off the couch this morning."

His gaze returned then, and though he hadn't moved any closer to her, his intent seemed only inches away.  "And if _I_ remember correctly," he said, "you were also the one who insisted I get _on_ it."

"Delirious, remember?"  She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, but kept her chin strong.

"And here I thought you just had good taste."  He paused, cocking his head.  "Oh, wait.  You dated Angel _and_ the Joyless Wonder.  Well, that knocks that theory out of the water.  Let's just go back to wantin' me, shall we?"

"Let's not."

"Can't really blame you, I s'pose.  Been told I'm quite the manly specimen on more than one occasion."

Rolling her eyes, Buffy turned in her tracks and began trudging in the direction from which they'd come, her steps heavy as her muscles began to scream in protest.

"Where are you off to this time?"

"The cabin.  At least if I let you check the magic boogaloo on your own, you'll either fry yourself to dust, or I'll get a few minutes where I don't have to see your face or hear your voice.  Either way, I win."

Spike's chuckle floated along the frigid air.  "You just keep tellin' yourself that, ducks," he said.

As she walked away, she couldn't resist the one last glimpse back at him over her shoulder.  Hip cocked, thumb hooked through his belt loop, he looked just as smug as he sounded, and Buffy frowned, the confusion crowding into her skull to join the plethora of uncertainties already there.  The epitome of concern one moment, Don Juan on crack the next.  If Spike had decided that his job was to drive her crazy until they got back to Sunnydale, he was succeeding marvelously.  Not that that was anything new, but this new methodology led to a whole different world, one where she was second-guessing herself around every corner and asking questions about him she had no right to be asking.

This was all her mom's fault.  If she'd just not said anything about being nice to Spike, and not let Aunt Darlene come over for the weekend, none of this would've happened in the first place.

Yeah.  She'd blame Mom for now.  That was easier than thinking about the alternative.

Stupid vampire.

*************

His smile vanished as soon as she disappeared through the trees, and Spike automatically straightened to start following after her, maintaining his distance so that the Slayer wouldn't sense his presence and start in on the distrust again.  He'd told her the truth; she was favoring her uninjured leg and every step she took only exacerbated the other.  And the fever was rising again, whether from too much exertion too soon or something else.  What she needed was a good day or two with nothing but rest to get herself healed up for good.  Only thing was, Buffy was too stubborn to truly listen to him until it was too late.  So he just had to make sure she made it back to the cabin without her knowing he was there.

Things had been surprisingly better after she'd awoken earlier.  Familiar bantering---albeit taken up a notch considering their circumstances and wasn't that a kick and a half when she didn't even seem perturbed by some of his more lewd suggestions---and then not even an argument when he'd set to fixing her something to eat.

_"You're not serious, are you?" she'd asked him, the light in her eyes surprised disbelief instead of anger._

_"Would I offer if I wasn't?"_

_"Yes."_

_He'd grinned.  "Fair enough.  But this is about gettin' your strength up and anything that means I don't have to cart you around is good, in my book.  So what do you want?"_

_"Is there soup?"_

_"Probably."_

_"Then soup.  But if you try and gross me out by putting blood or something else in it, you'll be wearing it as a fashion accessory, OK?"_

_"Wouldn't expect anything less from you, Slayer."_

_She'd curled back into the corner of the couch, and he could feel her eyes boring into his back as he began searching the cupboards for something resembling soup.  When it came, without the delusion of fever to prompt it this time, it took all his willpower not to stop what he was doing and look back at her in astonished pleasure._

_"Thanks, Spike."_

Encountering the magical barricade hadn't even come as that much of a surprise.  Someone had gone to a lot of bother to make sure they were taken care of at the cabin; to just let them walk away from it seemed stupid, even to Spike.  But he'd test the boundaries, like he'd promised her though he was sure it would be impenetrable all the way around.

A crashing off to his left halted his step, his eyes glittering in gold as his head whirled to see a pair of dark forms go barreling toward Buffy.

Or maybe not.

She was already battling them when Spike leapt into the fray, launching himself toward the nearest attacker to pull him away from the Slayer and falling into the unbroken snow with a muffled growl.  The demon's tusked face lunged toward his shoulder, intent on gnashing through sinew to separate the limb from the rest of the vampire's body, and Spike automatically twisted in the opposite direction, rolling the pair of them through the snow until he was on top.

He didn't recognize the species.  Curling tusks around a triple stack of teeth, and a thick, scaled hide he could already tell he'd never be able to sink his fangs through.  Its upper body was heavily muscled though its legs were lean, and when it fell for Spike's fakeout, its jaw meeting his fist, he knew that it was more brawn than brains.  That usually made for an easier fight.

Buffy was still on her feet, throwing punches with her good arm while using the obstacles of the trees to keep the demon off-guard.  She was avoiding any kicking, but when she was rushed, she vaulted through the air, grabbing a low-hanging branch and using it to propel her away from the attack.  Her landing had her injured leg taking the weight of her fall, and Spike saw the unmistakable wince as she rolled out of the way, leaping back to her feet with a graceful flip.  Well, graceful for being in a foot of snow.

The demon beneath him bucked, throwing him off, and the vampire crashed into the trunk of a tree, his head smashing against the bark.  "Spike!" he heard Buffy yell.  "Weapons!"

Weapons, right.  In the duffel.  The one he'd dropped as soon as he'd seen the threat approaching the Slayer.  Bollocks.

Shaking away the worst of the impact, Spike wrenched around to weave through the forest, eyes sweeping the white for the dark lump of the bag, the demon on his heels as he ran.  There, in a copse of pine.  Scooping it up in one deft motion before twisting and heading back, his speed gained him an advantage as he distanced himself from his attacker.  One of the daggers was out and in his hand before he was within ten feet of Buffy, and he shouted to grab her attention before tossing it through the air.

She grinned as she turned back to face the demon.  "Look," she said brightly as she held up the knife.  "I can have sharp, deadly things, too."  With a sweep of her arm, the blade whistled through the still air, slicing through the demon's near nonexistent neck and almost decapitating it.

The remaining demon regarded the two blonds with wary red eyes as they turned to face it.  "Where is she?" it lisped through its multitude of teeth.

Buffy waved the ichor-stained dagger in front of its face.  "Hello?  Right here.  What, are you guys blind as well as ugly?"

"Where is she?" it repeated, prompting a sigh from the Slayer.

"I'm going to take that as a yes, then," she said.  The throw of her weapon was almost casual, arcing through the winter air in silvery glints before embedding itself in the middle of the demon's forehead.

They both watched as it tumbled into the snow, and Spike grinned as he looked back at the Slayer.  "Was hopin' I'd get to see…" he started, only to stop as his gaze took in her flushed face, the trembling of her hands that made the air vibrate around her.  Without adrenaline to fuel her, her body was shutting itself down, preparing to fight the enemy within now that the external one was gone.  She needed rest, and this time, he wasn't wasting any more time by arguing with her.

"C'mon," he said, picking up the second duffel bag and letting it dangle from his hand as he leaned into her side, his arm snaking around her waist, forcing hers to cling to his shoulders.  "Off to bed with you."

Though she leaned against him as they started to walk toward the cabin, her weight was a feather for him to carry, and she surprised him by not squabbling about his aid.  "Where'd they come from, Spike?" she asked instead.

"Don't know," he replied.  "But soon as we get you settled, I'll come back and finish scouting that fence, see if there's a break they might've used to get in."

"Take a weapon," she murmured.  "You won't have me…to save…your skin this time."

"Right, Slayer," he chuckled, and together, they trudged through the snow.

*************

She was almost asleep by the time she climbed the stairs to the cabin, leaning against the wall as she waited for Spike to open the door and then blindly stumbling toward the couch.  At least I didn't have to be carried this time, she thought with a note of satisfaction as she collapsed into the cushions, torn between curling into a ball to preserve her body heat and stretching to alleviate some of the tension and pain wound in her muscles.  Stretching won, and Buffy's cheek rested on the sofa's arm as her eyelids began to droop.

She'd just take a little nap while Spike found the hole in the fence, she reasoned.  Around her, she could hear him bustling as he set about relighting the fire in the fireplace, his boots scraping reassuringly across the wooden floor.  The thought that he wouldn't let her down floated somewhere around the edges of her consciousness, too ephemeral for her to grab onto and wrangle with even if the desire to do so had actually been there.

Her eyes were closed when she felt the weight curl around her shoulders, the down of the comforter from the bed offering her relief from the cold.  She didn't question it, not even when the weight increased and not even when the tickle of leather brushed against her jaw, its scent filling her nostrils and deepening her breath.  The last sensation she was aware of as she drifted into sleep was the whisper of cool fingers across her forehead.

To be continued in Chapter 7: Who's Naughty or Nice…


	7. Who's Naughty or Nice

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike have attempted to leave the cabin, only to be confronted with a magical fence that won't let them pass and a pair of demons looking for "her"…

*************

At some point in her sleep, she'd rolled over.  So, when Buffy's lids lifted, almost immediately alert as only a full night's rest could do, the first thing she was aware of was her cheek pressed to the cushion, the weight of the blankets bearing down on her back, and the unmistakable scent of leather clinging like motes to the air.  Her body ached, but with the good ache that came from disuse and not from pain, and she stretched beneath the covers, her muscles singing with the burn of waking.

The glow from the hearth shimmered across the floorboards, the flames still strong in spite of the settled nature of the embers.  For a moment, the satisfaction it suffused through Buffy's body made her smile, until she realized that it was all completely the doing of a certain bleached someone.  The tending of the fire, the assurance of security…she'd never awoken in spite of the apparent care he'd taken to seeing to the room's warmth.  What exactly did that mean?

The glimmers from the fireplace weren't the only illumination in the room.  On the wall opposite her, vivid sunlight outlined the heavy drapes, peeking through the divided middle to sliver across the floor.  Her eyes followed it, then continued the path when it stopped short of the recumbent vampire lying parallel to the couch, widening as she drank in his partially clad form.

He'd fallen asleep on his stomach, tousled curls resting on his left forearm, his other hand weighing down the open pages of a book at his side as if he'd only meant to take a brief break from reading, to steal a moment and rest his eyes from the tiny print squinting back at him.  His torso was bare, the black wad tossed casually aside obviously his shirt, but it wasn't the hewn sculpture of his back that captured Buffy's attention.  It was the scarlet-imbrued score along his shoulder blade, the blood dried and clinging to the ragged edges of the wound, that made her heart hitch into her throat.

Pushing the blankets off, she freed her arm from the bulky encumbrance, reaching out with hesitant fingers to ghost over Spike's injury.  It wasn't the only one marking him.  Now that she was looking, she could see the fading bruises shadowing his side, the torn skin on the knuckles that rested on the book.  Was I really that out of it last night? she wondered.  How did I not see any of this then?

Though her head was relatively clear now, free of the remnants of the fever, Buffy decided that it must've been that which had prevented her from discerning Spike's state the previous night.  Not that she would've been worried about him then, anyway.  The nice thing about having the vamp as back-up was that he was one person she knew could handle his own in a fight.   But that didn't mean she couldn't still be concerned about his injuries.  He'd certainly gone above and beyond in looking after hers.

Of course, he'd also said something about waking her when he found the hole in the fence.  Here it was with the day clearly well on its way on the other side of the cabin walls, and she was only just getting up.  

Devil's advocate reared its horned head.  _Maybe he tried and you didn't budge_.  

A possibility.  It had certainly known to happen when she'd been sick before.

Except she didn't really see Spike as the kind to just give up if she didn't wake right away.  In fact, she suspected he was the sort who'd go to drastic means just to get it to occur.

Well, she was up now.  And if Spike could play doctor with her, the least she could do was return the favor.

As she began to push herself up onto her elbows, Buffy saw the tangle of black leather with the blankets heaped at the other end of the couch, and pulled it back to bring it to her face.  She inhaled deeply, its familiar aroma slackening the last of the tension constricting her body.  That's it, she thought as she looked down at the worn lapels, caressing the softened leather with almost a lover's touch.  Mom's getting a last minute request for Santa.  Buffy wants a new coat for Christmas.

For now, she settled for sliding her arms back into its sleeves before turning her attention back to Spike.  

The first aid kit was tossed casually to the side, as if he couldn't be bothered with fussing with it too much, and Buffy's gaze turned to follow her reach for it, even as her right hand extended to set upon his shoulder.

His strike was lightning-fast, strong fingers gripping her wrist and knocking her off-balance as he rolled away from the couch.  She was pulled along with him, stopping only when he was on his back, her body stretched out on top of his.

"Well, well, well," he said softly, his eyes still dark with sleep, his voice rough from disuse.  "Thought we might get attacked again, but didn't figure it would be comin' from you, Slayer."

She was convinced she could feel every hard muscle in his body.  The leather duster fell around her to drape over the pair, but though it hid his semi-bare body from view, it didn't prevent his lithe strength from burning through her clothing.  A flush crept over Buffy's cheeks as memories of what it had felt like to be pressed into him---unyielding, powerful, somehow gentle, those hands splayed in the small of her back as he pulled her closer---flooded her veins, and she swallowed in an attempt to regain her equilibrium.

"I'd hardly call it attacking you, Spike," she said, and wondered if that sounded as unconvincing to him as it did to her.

His grip loosened around her wrist without letting go, his thumb starting to slowly circle over the pulse it found there.  "So…is it that you were…_playing_, with my person then?" he drawled.

"I was…"  _God, how could he make everything sound so dirty?  It had to be the accent._  "I saw your cut," she tried again.  "I was just going to clean it out."

Briefly, his gaze darted to the first aid kit, but he didn't bother to release her from his hold.  "Awfully humanitarian of you.  But not necessary.  It's just a scratch.  It'll mend."

"So why aren't you letting me go then?"

Dark eyes returned to hers, darker still than they'd been before, and a shiver went down Buffy's spine.  "It's not like I can stop you from gettin' yourself up on your own, pet.  Maybe the better question would be…why aren't you the one who's moving here?"

I am, she wanted to say, because it certainly felt like her skin had taken on a life of its own, moving and throbbing as if it wanted to race away without the rest of her.  But he was making too valid a point, one whose implications made her brain automatically shut itself off, and she slowly slid away, separating her body from his, her thigh brushing across the hardness of his hips---_it's the denim!  It's only hard because of the denim!_---as she inched herself back to sit against the couch.

He followed her movement with a roll of his pelvis, propping his head up on his fist as he scanned over her upright form.  "And here I was hopin' you'd be your usual stubborn self and do the exact opposite of what I said," he teased.  "Remind me of that next time this comes up again."

Distance made it easier to think, and Buffy lifted her chin.  "There's hardly going to be a next time," she said, and began shifting her weight to stand up.

His hand around her ankle stopped her.  "If you think I'm goin' to let you get up and about after finally gettin' some decent kip, think again."

"You don't really expect me to be a lump all day, do you?"  She kicked free from his hold, but didn't rise.

He shrugged.  "Not like you have anything better to do."

"Really?  What about getting out of here?  Or have we forgotten about that little part of last night's walk in the woods?"

"We're not goin' anywhere, Slayer."  Spike sat up, the smallest of winces furrowing his brow as he straightened his shoulder.  "After you passed out, I went out like I told you I would.  There aren't any breaks in whatever magic is fencing us in."

"But…there has to be.  Those demons---."

"It's a one-way system," he interrupted.  "Saw it with my own eyes when another of those things came crashing at me through a section I'd just tested."  He held up the hand he'd been sleeping on, and Buffy saw the jagged burns that still adorned his fingertips.  

"Is that how you got hurt?" she asked, gesturing toward his back.

Spike nodded.  "Just scrapped a bit before I threw it back onto the fence.  It got a little toasted after that."  He smirked.  "Guess that makes me the eggman, I s'pose."

"Huh?"  Maybe he'd gotten hit on the head, too, because now he was spouting nonsense.

"The eggman," he repeated.  "Because he was the walrus."  He paused, waiting for her to get it.  "You know," he went on, demonstrating with his hands, "'cause of the…tusks…"  Spike's voice trailed off as he continued to be met by her blank stare, and he shook his head in disgust.  "Never mind," he said, and then muttered, "Bloody ignorant children."

She held up a hand when he started to rise.  "You should still let me clean it out," Buffy said.  "It looks nasty."

"And like I said, it's just a scratch.  I've had worse before, mostly from you."

"Humor the sick Slayer, Spike.  We can't afford to have both of us under par."

Crouched before her, his lips pursed as his eyes slid over her, and in spite of her rumpled appearance and way too much clothing, Buffy couldn't avoid the direct sensation of being naked under his scrutiny.  "Don't seem so sick any more to me," he said when his eyes returned to hers.  

"Oh?" she said perkily, deliberately ignoring his innuendo.  "Well, I guess that means I can get up th---."

His hands were on hers before she could finish the sentence, forcing her to still as she rooted to her seat.  "Still recovering, though," he said.  "Which means staying in bed 'til we're sure that fever's buggered off for good.  Not like we don't have time for it."

It was only then that his earlier words sunk in.  Not going anywhere, he'd said.  Could he be lying?  With a wound like the one he currently sported, she doubted it.  And why would Spike want to drag out his imprisonment with her if he didn't have to?

"You're sure there's no way through the barrier?" she asked, all pretenses dropping.

"Swear on the honor of the last boy scout I ate," Spike replied.  "Did two laps just to be sure."  He nodded toward the door, and she noticed for the first time the stack of firewood piled in front of it.  "I wasn't sure how many more of our horny devils were still lurking about, so I blocked up the entrance in case I dropped off.  Which I did, apparently."

"Doesn't that keep us from getting out, too?"

"And where exactly would we be goin'?"  His head tilted.  "It's near high noon, pet, so I'm tucked in for the day.  And you…"  His eyes fell to her wrist before sliding to her leg where it poked out from beneath the coat.  "How's it feel?"

"Sore," Buffy said.  "Doing that last flip last night kinda hurt.  But it's better than it was," she hastened to add when it looked like he was going to come closer.  "You don't need to be my crutch any more.  I'm more than capable of getting around on my own."

"Think you might fancy a bath then?"

Her brows shot up as sudden images of a wet Spike filled her head, her hands sliding across his bare chest as his proceeded to run a rough washcloth over her breasts, all hot water and slippery soap and ooo, maybe baby oil…

"Huh?" she said.  _I've got to still be sick.  Considering naked Spike can only be the product of a delusional mind._

"A bath," he repeated.  "There's a nice one in there, and seein' as how you've been in the same clothes for the past couple days, not to mention wrapped up in the duvet and bleedin' like a stuck pig, it stands to reason you might want to wash up while you've got the time."  He stood, standing back as he regarded her.  "Can't say this old nose wouldn't appreciate it, either."

Blushing at his frank appraisal, Buffy tugged the leather jacket from her shoulders.  Just when she thought she was getting to the point where she'd think Spike wasn't so bad, he reverted to form and said something truly rude.  Thank god.  She wasn't ready to be going down the road where she and Spike actually got along.

"It might be something to consider for yourself," she bit back.  "Not that I've got a problem with your arm falling off because you didn't take care of that cut, but I really don't want to have to listen to your complaining when it does."

"That sounds remarkably like an invite to join you, luv."

It took a second for what he was saying to sink in.  "No!" Buffy blurted, and the coat fell to the floor as she rushed to stand.  The fleeting notion that Spike could read her mind---even when it was inexplicably daydreaming---made her skitter around the edge of the couch, putting as much distance as she could between them and backing toward the bathroom.  "Please," she added, deliberately affecting a note of disdain.  "Don't flatter yourself, Spike."

"Don't need to.  Got a nose that tells me otherwise."

His chuckle followed her into the other room, even after she slammed the door behind her.  

*************

He was awake long before the timid knock came to his door, his restlessness a product of both his discomfort from his bruised ribs and having to sleep in his restrictive clothing.  "Come in," Giles called out, and sat up on the bed, his eyes trained warily on the door.

The slipping of the lock echoed into the room, and the door slowly creaked open to reveal Paul in its opening, a food-laden tray in his hands.  "Are you hungry?" the young man asked.  His tread was hesitant as it crossed the threshold, and he nudged the door shut behind him with his elbow.

"I believe the more accurate description of my current state would be increasingly brassed off," he replied tightly.  In contrast to his words, though, his stomach audibly rumbled as the scent of the bacon filtered to his nose, and he rolled his eyes at his body's betrayal.  "How long am I to be held a prisoner?"

Setting the tray down on the table, Paul jerked back when Giles rose and crossed to him, in spite of the stiff caution that held the elder Watcher's upper body upright.  "You're not a prisoner, Mr. Giles.  You're a guest---."

"Who's held against his will, under lock and key.  Please don't patronize me, Mr. McCallister.  I've been playing with the big boys for longer than you've been out of nappies."  Surreptitiously, his fingers rested on the edge of the table, using it to steady himself without making his weakness too apparent.  His torso still hurt like mad, but at least he was mobile now.  And if worse came to worse, he'd still be able to take a swing at the younger man if it came down to it.

"Pardon me for saying so, sir, but the lockdown was entirely your own doing."  Paul held himself rigidly, though his cheeks were bright with color.  "You were rather…agitated yesterday.  It was felt that you would flee, given the opportunity."

"Bloody well right I'd flee," Giles muttered.  This close, the food was making his mouth water, and he picked up one of the scones resting at the side of the teapot, grateful that he'd at least get a good meal before whatever was scheduled to happen next.  After the assurance the day previously that his current circumstances had nothing to do with Buffy, he had lost his temper and railed at the young Watcher wannabe, prompting Paul to go scuttling off to wherever they kept themselves when they weren't watching over their hostage.  The lock of the door had soon followed, and Giles had drifted between sleep and his confused thoughts for the next eighteen hours, waiting for some clarification to his situation to arrive.

And it came bearing clotted cream and strawberry jam.  At least clarification was civilized.

"Explanations will be arriving in due order," Paul continued.  "Silas has made arrangements for us to meet with Maria after tea.  She's really the one who can best answer your questions."

Giles' chewing slowed as he digested this latest tidbit.  Maria.  That was a new name.  "And who exactly is she?" he queried.

"The reason you're here," he said.  "It was her deduction that concluded we needed your skills in order to make this entire endeavour succeed."  He gestured to the walls around them.  "This is her home.  She thought we would all be more comfortable here than in more sterile surroundings."

"And where is here?"  He felt foolish, asking such inane questions, but it felt as if Paul was being deliberately obtuse, prompting the requirement for this absurd interrogation.

"Still in California, if that's what you're wondering.  Quite close to your accident, actually.  We lacked the resources to transport very far away from there."

His careful choice of words was only clouding the issue rather than clarifying, and Giles' mind automatically began ruminating on the possibilities.  "Tell me," he said, pouring some milk into the cup before picking up the teapot, "did it not occur to you to simply _ask_ for my assistance in whatever this is?  If it's as important as you suggest, and locality is an extraneous consideration, surely approaching me in Sunnydale would have been infinitely simpler than whatever means you've taken to procure my presence here."

"Silas was of the mind you would refuse, and with time against us, none of us were prepared to take that risk."

"So instead, you anger me further by endangering Buffy and holding me against my will.  Splendid logic.  The Council lost a keen asset when they let you slip away."  The sarcasm in his tone was lost the instant the tea hit his tongue, and he almost groaned out loud at the pleasure of the hot liquid coursing down his throat.  Real tea, Harrods by the taste of it.  What was that he'd thought about this place being civilized?

"Unavoidable, Mr. Giles, and your Slayer's involvement…unfortunate."  He began backing away toward the door.  "I'll return at teatime.  We'll be dining with Maria and Silas before settling to answer any and all your questions.  There are clothes in the wardrobe should you wish to change, and if you find yourself requiring anything prior, the alarm at the side of the bed will summon one of the staff to tend to your needs."

Being left to his own devices with a steaming breakfast before him, Giles crumpled into the stuffed chair, his countenance introspective as he sipped at his tea.  It was just a matter of waiting a few more hours.  Whatever plans his captors had required his presence and most likely his cooperation.  That was an advantage he was more than prepared to exercise for as long as possible.

*************

Spike's fingers flicked the water dripping from them at the pan, watching as the hot oil made it spit and dance across the surface.  Ready, he reasoned, and picked up the bowl and spoon to begin ladling the smooth circles onto the griddle.  From the other room, the distant sound of Buffy bathing was a relaxing charm to his muscles, liquefying his motions to flow with an ease that had been mostly absent since his return to Sunnydale, but it escaped his notice as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Part of him was annoyed with himself for falling asleep on the watch.  Running into the third demon while testing the barricade last night had made him suspicious that others might by hanging about, and the cabin wasn't exactly the most safe of environments if any sort of direct attack should take place.  Using the wood he'd hauled in for the fire seemed like his choice for blocking the door, and once he'd tended to the injury in his shoulder, setting to continue reading the book he'd nicked from the shelf before had seemed like the surest way to stay awake.

He hadn't counted on the warmth of the fireplace or the soft rhythm of Buffy's breathing to lull him into slumber.  But he bloody well couldn't argue with the pleasure at fully waking up with her on top of him.  Now _that_ could be a position he could get used to.

It had been instinct when he'd grabbed her, but what instinct it could be that would keep him from hurting her and activating the chip, Spike had no idea.  It was almost as if part of him was doing his thinking for him, formulating his moves without his orders to get the Slayer into that particular position, and he had a sneaking suspicion he knew which part it was.  Not that he normally had a problem going along with it, but doing so often led to situations he later regretted, the most recent being Harmony, of course.

But Buffy was hardly Harmony.

She had a brain, for one thing.

And a tongue that excelled at wicked, wicked words.

Probably excelled at other things, too.  Wasn't that what Slayer muscles were supposed to be about?

Ah…Slayer muscles…all dynamic, and tight, and ready to hurt at the smallest provocation, and…

And this train of thought was leading him to exactly the opposite place he wanted to be.

Spike shook his head.  At least she seemed to be stronger this morning.  She moved with the familiar grace of health, and the only scents he could smell on her weren't of the fevered variety.  He'd been lying when he'd snarked about being turned off by her lack of recent bathing; if anything, the combination of her spent blood and her hungry pores was more alluring than nauseous, and though he had to constantly fight with his demon about doing something about it, Spike was learning that he rather liked having her around.  And, if his nose was telling him the truth, Buffy was liking it, too.  Even through her layers of clothing, the faint musk of her arousal when he'd suggested the bath had been apparent.  Too bad she'd turned him down.

As he watched the battered circles begin to bubble, Spike picked up the burning cigarette he'd set on the edge of the counter and took a long drag.  He had half a mind to go in there anyway, take a look at the Slayer's goodies and see just how far he could push her before she'd snap.  Maybe pull out the knickers he was keeping in his front pocket to see how she'd react.  He grinned.  It would be a diversion at least.  Without a telly or even a radio for entertainment, he was being forced to rely upon the written word and his own creativity to keep himself distracted.  A good fight with Buffy could be enough to keep him going for a day or two while they tried to find a way out of the place.

_Bugger_.  He frowned when he saw the ash from his cigarette sprinkled across the belated breakfast he'd been making.  _Think the Slayer's goin' to notice that._

Briefly, he debated just leaving it.  Could make _that _a game, he thought.  See how long it takes her to notice something's off.  _And then see how long it takes her to make you as much ash_, his other self reminded.   Pursing his lips around the cigarette's end to keep it in place while he moved, Spike used a nearby towel to pick up the edge of the griddle, turning to drop the offender into the rubbish.

"Hello."

It took a lot to startle Spike.  One huge advantage of vampire senses was the relative inability for things to sneak up on him.  So when he turned to see the dark-haired beauty standing in front of the refrigerator, the surprise that rattled his veins was almost enough for him to drop the pan.

"Bloody hell!" he exploded, his cigarette falling to the floor.  "Who the hell are you?"

Her dark eyes dropped to his hands, a delicate brow arching.  "You're making Buffy breakfast?" she queried, ignoring his question.  "Please tell me she's not in bed."

"She's in the bath," was his automatic response.  But as soon as the words tumbled from his mouth, Spike stopped, frowning.  "Wait.  What do you know about Buffy?"

"We go back a long way.  As do you and I, Spike."

His blood chilled at the sound of his name on her tongue, and Spike's gaze narrowed as he more closely scrutinized the visitor.  Dark hair, darker eyes, a delicate European beauty.  Now that he thought about it, she looked familiar, but how exactly he knew her, he wasn't entirely sure.

A dart of his eyes told him one thing he hadn't been expecting.  All the windows remained shut, and the wood he'd piled in front of the door was exactly as he'd left it.  Not only had she snuck in under his radar, but she'd done it without going through a single entrance.  

"Lemme guess," he said, leaning to pick up his cigarette, tossing it into the sink before finishing the scraping of the pan into the trash.  "You've got something to do with our little leaving problem here."

"Partially," she said.  "I'm just one of many who are interested in the pair of you.  Well, I was more interested in Buffy, but I was outvoted on the subject of you."

"Then shouldn't you be gabbing at her instead of standin' around, makin' me muck up brekky here?"

The look she shot in the direction of the the closed door of the bathroom was telling.  "Trust me, I really wish I could.  But unfortunately, if Buffy were to know of my presence, something tells me things might get a little…uncomfortable for a while.  She's not exactly known for thinking first, acting later."

He couldn't help but chuckle.  "No, that she's not."

*************

She hated having to get out of the tub, but the cooling water was pruning her skin beyond recognition and Buffy had the sinking feeling that if she spent any more time loitering in the bath, Spike wouldn't hesitate to come poking his nose in to see what was keeping her.  And one of them being half-naked was already one too many, as far as she was concerned.  Even if it was better that it was him.

As she pulled the plug, a whiff of something familiar made her hesitate, her head swivelling to stare at the closed door.  Pancakes.  That was the unmistakable smell of pancakes.  _Spike knows how to cook pancakes?  Or maybe he doesn't.  That would explain the swearing I heard earlier._

There was no doubt in her mind that _these_ would most definitely be evil.

Still, evil or not, they smelled delicious, the aroma making her stomach growl in response, and Buffy quickened her pace, ignoring the twinges in her wrist and leg as she slipped her pants on.  A swift flick of the comb through her hair and she felt almost like a new person standing in front of the mirror.

_We'll see who's smelly now_, she thought with satisfaction as she pulled open the door to step into the outer room.

She took only a single hobble before halting in her tracks, surprise mingling with alarm as she spotted Spike lounging against the counter, casually dunking a rolled pancake into a mug of blood.  He wasn't the cause of her concern, though.  No, the source of her concern stood by the fridge, her skirt flowing around her long legs, looking very much like she'd never even died.

Except Buffy knew better.

Because Jenny Calendar was long buried, which made this…

"Get away from him, you bitch," Buffy said tightly, her body readying for a fight though she knew with her head that she couldn't touch it.

Jenny sighed, looking from the Slayer back to Spike.  "Told you she wouldn't be happy to see me."

To be continued in Chapter 8: Angels We Have Heard on High…


	8. Angels We Have Heard on High

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy has walked in on an unexpected visitor, someone who looks remarkably like Jenny Calendar…

*************

It was the possessive tone of her voice that made Spike pause, his eyes glittering as they turned to see Buffy standing outside the bathroom.  Her damp hair was pushed away from her face, her jaw set as she stared down the dark-haired woman, and she looked every inch the warrior she was, ready to battle their unexpected guest though he suspected that it would be a fruitless endeavour.

"I said, get away from him," Buffy repeated.  She moved as she spoke, a deliberate pace that situated her directly between him and the woman, and this time, there was no mistaking the suggestion that their guest was somehow threatening someone for whom the Slayer held concern.

Against his will, the corner of his mouth lifted.  Suddenly, this just got much more interesting.

"I know---," the woman started, only to be cut off when the Slayer took an angry step.

"Don't!" she hissed.  At her sides, Buffy's hands were balled into fists, and the smile on Spike's face waned as he saw the tremor in the wrist she'd broken.  "And what is it with you and the Christmas theme?  It's a peace and goodwill toward men allergy, isn't it?"  Her eyes flitted to where he leaned against the counter.  "Not that Spike's a man---."

"Hey!" he said, forgetting his momentary worry in the face of the personal slight to his gender.  "Beg to differ, pet."  His thumb hooked through his jeans loop as his fingers splayed suggestively over his crotch.  "Got a few body parts here that toss that claim out of the soddin' water."

She ignored him.  "I would've thought you learned your lesson last year," Buffy continued.  "You couldn't get to Angel and you know what?  Spike's a helluva lot more pigheaded than Angel is, so if you think you can try your tricks on him, you just might find yourself on the short end of that stick.  A stick I wish desperately I could beat your head in with."

The woman held her ground.  "I know that this looks bad, but I'm not who you think I am."

"Oh?"  Without warning, Buffy's hand shot out and waved in the space before her, passing through the woman as if she wasn't there, and in that instant, Spike's suspicions were confirmed.  Ghost.  Or something of that variety.  It was the reason he'd sensed absolutely nothing with the being's presence.

"Looking pretty large with the body lackage there," the Slayer went on.  "So sorry if I don't really believe you on the who you are front."

"I'm non-corporeal because I'm dead," their guest replied.  "Not because I'm the First."

Spike frowned.  "The first what?" he asked.

"Evil," the two women said simultaneously.

"Oh."  Well, that explained a lot then.  Only something incredibly evil could concoct the kind of plan that would leave him locked up with only the Slayer for company for days on end.  He was beginning to really like this woman.

"But I'm not," the brunette argued.  "I really am---."

"You're _not_ Miss Calendar," Buffy said tightly.

"Rupert's bird!" Spike exploded, wagging his finger at the brunette.  "_That's_ who you are.  I knew you looked familiar.  You're the one Ang---."  He stopped in mid-word, lips puckered to finish the name as the connection of what he was about to say fired inside his brain.  His eyes jumped from Jenny's cool ones, to Buffy's furious ones, before he settled into a more noncommittal mask.  "Right," he drawled.  "That's probably why you're not so keen on me and mine, then.  Gotcha."

The declaration that Jenny didn't like Spike prompted Buffy's brows to shoot up in surprise.  "So the big evil's got a problem with the killer of two slayers?" she said, folding her arms under her breasts.  "Setting your standards kind of high, don't you think?"

Jenny sighed.  "Look, can we just start over?  You can't hit me, I'm not leaving until I've given you the heads up, and it's not like you can just take a stroll on down to the local hangout in order to get away from me, not with the barrier that's around this place." 

Spike saw understanding dawn in the Slayer's gaze, and picked up another pancake from the stack at his side.  He'd already heard part of the spiel, but he had a funny feeling that Buffy wasn't going to be quite as easy a sell.  Not that he'd actually heard the pitch yet, but someone who ruffled her feathers this much couldn't be all good, right?

"You're the reason we're here," Buffy said.  "You caused the accident."

"No."  Jenny was shaking her head.  "We found out about the accident too late.  By the time I showed up to try and intervene, Rupert was already gone."

"OK, there is just so much wrong in those sentences, I don't even know where to begin.  Who's 'we'?  And what's this about _intervening_?  Are you saying you could've prevented the accident?  And if you know Giles was gone…"  Her voice firmed, brooking no more games.  "…_where_ is he?"

The silence that followed riveted Spike to the staredown happening between the two women, both assessing the other, neither willing to back away.  Finally, Jenny dropped her eyes, taking a deep breath before lifting her head back up to look at Buffy.

"We.  Those of us trying to do what's right, to fix what's gone wrong by enlisting your aid to protect her.  Prevented the accident?  No. We didn't know it was going to occur until it was too late.  We just needed to get you two to safety.  And Rupert…"  She swallowed, her eyes bright.  "We don't know where he is.  We weren't the ones who took him."

He saw the Slayer pale slightly at the disavowal of the Watcher's predicament, the tremor in her hand increasing although he suspected it wasn't so much from her injury as something else.  Just as quickly as it appeared, though, it vanished, and Buffy lifted her chin as if nothing untoward had been said.

"So you're the reason Spike pulled me out of the wreck?" she asked, calm and collected and every inch back in charge.

"I wish I could take the credit for that," Jenny said.  "But he decided to save you on his own.  All I had to do was coax him toward the cabin, which, surprisingly enough, was not that difficult."

The confused query behind Buffy's eyes was all Spike needed to turn his attention to his drink, soaking another pancake with blood and then letting it disintegrate on his tongue.  Bugger.  It would've been nicer for her to believe that he'd been manipulated somehow in saving her.  Now she was going to be all twenty questions on what exactly he'd been thinking.

He glanced up quickly through his lashes.

Fuck.  Now the gypsy bint was looking at him, too.

"You were the last person I thought would help to protect her," she was saying.  "Your supporters were quite adamant, though.  'Spike will surprise you,' they said.  'Don't count him out of the game just yet.'"

"I'm not in your bloody game," Spike growled, discomfort tightening his grip around the mug.  "I only saved the Slayer because I knew Rupes would have my hide if I didn't."  A partial lie, but who cared.  Sure, the Watcher would most likely enact whatever sort of vile vengeance he wanted if Spike let something happen to the Slayer when he could've prevented it, but the other…well, that was really none of their business.  He was his own vamp, damn it, and evil or not, this first Jenny or whatnot was starting to grate on his nerves.  

"I'm not talking about Buffy," she said.  "Surprisingly enough, and don't you ever dare tell Rupert I said this, the world doesn't always revolve around the Slayer."

"This _her_ you keep talking about…" Buffy said, and thank god her attention was diverted away from him again.  "Is this the same her those demons who showed up last night were asking about?  I assumed they were talking about me, but now I'm not so sure."

It was the first time Jenny looked genuinely shocked.  "You were attacked?" she asked.  

"You mean your all-powerful, all-knowing selves didn't know that already?  Yeah, we were attacked.  Three of them.  Looked like walruses, except, you know, demony."

Jenny's shoulders sagged.  "Damn it," she muttered.  "That means Maria already knows about you two."

"Getting _really_ tired of the cryptic here, which, funny thing, is actually convincing me more and more that you're Miss Calendar."  A small, determined step forward.  "Just cut the crap, whoever the hell you are.  I want to know what's going on."

*************

The afternoon sun was on the far side of the cabin, leaving the front porch sheltered and safe for Spike as he paced along its length.  A trail of ash was left in his wake, and the half dozen or so discarded cigarette butts marked better time than the length of the shadows cast by the nearby trees.  He'd fled the inquisition as soon as he'd could, purposefully banishing himself to the seclusion of the great outdoors before his frustration with the situation caused him to do something that could only end at the pointy end of one the Slayer's stakes, and now, too many hours and half a pack later, he was beginning to debate going back inside.

He was just another pawn in another game that he'd never asked to bloody join in the first place.  This mucking about with his life shit had gotten old about two seconds before those damn G.I. Joes had zapped him on campus, turning him into a pathetic git begging for scraps at the Slayer's table, and Spike was ready to fight this latest development with every non-existent breath in his undead body.  Fuck her and whatever wind she rode in on.  He wasn't so far gone to start taking orders from a soddin' ghost now.

Buffy was another matter, however.  Her and her kind were the reasons he was in this mess to start with.  Tagging along as the perky yet dangerous babysitter.  Nattering on about her ski bunny dreams and probably distracting Rupert from his driving just enough to get in the accident in the first place.  This was all_ her _fault.  If she wasn't so tied in to every bleedin' heart out to do a shred of good, this never would've happened.  He could be feet up in front of a fireplace, a warm cup of blood in his hands, making her miserable by taunting her to death because she was stuck with him until they returned to Sunnyhell.

The distinction that he was almost in exactly that situation currently never even entered his mind.

His face contorted into a grimace as he flung his spent cigarette out into the snow, hearing the faint sizzle as it landed in the snow, and reached into his pocket for his pack.  Five left.  Great.  In his haste to bugger out of there, he'd forgotten he was going to have to ration these, because something told him that not even the calendar girl would consider magicking in a fresh supply of smokes, not when she didn't want him there in the first place.

Behind him, the door opened, and he smelled the scent of Buffy's skin as she appeared in the doorway.  "You can stop hiding," she said.  "The big bad ghostie is all gone now."

"Hardly hidin' when all you have to do is look out the soddin' window to find me," he replied without even bothering to turn.  "Get what you were lookin' for?"

"Oh, I was _looking_ for this massive headache and sense of impending doom?  Gee, I didn't realize."

Her sardonic tone was enough for him to toss her a glance over his shoulder.  Leaning against the jamb for support, Buffy had his coat wrapped around her thin form, arms tight against her stomach as her breath clouded before her face.  "You should get back inside," Spike warned.  "You'll catch your death out here.  Again."

"Are you coming in?"

"Hadn't planned on it."

"Then I'm not budging.  As much as this entire situation sucks, someone's decided to invite you to the party, too, so at least you should hear the guest list."  The click of the door closing was followed by Buffy's offbeat tread across the porch, and she stopped at his side, her hands stuffed deep inside her pockets as she leaned against the railing.  "OK, so I budged a little."

She sounded like she was teasing, and he looked down at her, meeting her upturned eyes with a confused frown.  "So what's so important that I have to get lumped into the mix?" he asked.

Buffy shrugged, all nonchalance and weary grace.  "Oh, no big.  Just the end of the world as we know it."

"Then how come I'm not feelin' so fine here?" he joked, but his heart wasn't in it.

They stood in silence for several minutes, she facing out, he leaning against the post, the quiet broken only by the scraping of Buffy's boot against the wood as she randomly kicked off clumps of snow to land and create mini-craters on the unbroken surface below them.  When she finally spoke, her voice was low, conspiratorial, and it left a warm flush down Spike's spine.

"You're not the only who's angry, you know.  Being a puppet on a string has never rated high on the Buffy meter of fun."

"Yeah, well, the difference is, Slayer, this savior gig is your bloody life.  Me, I should be walkin' down the streets of hell with a pretty girl stuck in my teeth instead of shacking it up here with you.  So, if I seem a little brassed off 'cause Rupert's ex has decided to screw my nuts to the wall, well, that's because I am."

Buffy sighed.  "I'm not even sure it is Miss Calendar, if that makes you feel any better.  I mean, it might be.  She didn't talk like the First did the last time I saw it.  With the First, it was all about how it was beyond sin, beyond death, beyond blah."  She stuck her tongue out on the last, and Spike fought the smile that threatened to curve his lips at the sight.  He'd never say it out loud, but she could look impossibly adorable when she screwed up her face that way.

"Sounds like every other evil thing I've encountered," he said.  "Think I might've even used those words myself once or twice."

"Yeah, well, if it is the First, then it's trying a whole new tactic in getting under my skin, because sin and death didn't come up once."  She paused, thinking.  "Well, death came up once, but not either of ours so the jury's still out on whether she's evil or not."

"Do we have _any_ sort of verdict, then?  What all this playing house is s'posed to be about?"

"Yep.  It's supposed to be about playing house."  At his raised brow, she went on.  "She…they…want us to protect someone from these demons who are looking for her.  A she someone.  And if we don't, if whoever's after her wins, it's end of the world time."  His pointed look around at the quiet surrounding them made her smile.  "Apparently, she's on her way.  She's supposed to be here in a day or two."

"What, they couldn't magic her in with the pig and wardrobes?"

"I asked the same thing.  Jenny said magic doesn't work on her.  It's got something to do with the whole why we need to guard her reasoning but she was pretty vague with the specifics.  Oh, but I did get a name.  Holly."

It took a moment for what she was saying to sink in.  "Are they completely off their box?" Spike said.  Resuming his pacing, his body was thick with his returned frustration.  "I'm _evil_, remember?  I don't protect innocent little misses from big bads trying to end the world.  I'm supposed to deliver them bound and trussed on a blood-soaked platter!  Has someone out there _forgotten _that fact?"

Buffy didn't seem perturbed by his outburst.  "Because someone somewhere has a sick sense of humor, obviously."  She sighed, and stepped forward to block his path, her hand coming out to his arm to keep herself steady.  "I'm about as thrilled about this as you are, Spike.  According to Jenny, we're stuck here until New Year's Day---."

"What?!?"

She nodded.  "The barrier they put in place is made to dissolve at that point, because the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve is the deadline for whatever bad mojo these people want to do with Holly.  So, we've got two choices.  We do nothing and wait it out until the magic goes poof so that we can walk away.  Or we do as they ask and help guard this Holly person."

"Funny, I didn't hear much askin'."

"Neither did I."

Her displeasure at the situation was actually calming him, their shared resentment dissipating his earlier anger.  "What're you goin' to do?" he asked.

"You mean, what're _we_going to do, Spike.  Because like it or not, there are three sides here."  She began ticking them off on her fingers.  "Jenny and her band of merry ghosts.  The demons who are after Holly.  And us."  Buffy paused.  "It's not like it's the first time we've had to team up to stop an apocalypse, you know.  And we didn't exactly screw that one up, now did we?"

All too suddenly, Spike was aware of the weight of her hand on his arm, the warmth it added to his bare skin in spite of the bite to the air, and the urge to touch her made his other hand twitch in its eagerness to do so.  She wasn't even aware of it, he could tell.  Though her breathing seemed slightly accelerated, that was easily explained by her growing fatigue; this was the most active she'd been since the accident, the trek through the woods the previous night notwithstanding.

He wanted to tell her she was wrong.  He wanted to scream it out and tell her to go to hell, except that would have to wait, wouldn't it, considering they were both stuck behind the bars of this particular cage.  And like it or not, she had a point.  He'd do worse than side with the Slayer on this one.  She had an annoying tendency to win.

"Don't s'pose she made any mention of gettin' _paid_ for this particular job?" he said, the query his unspoken agreement to her previous statements.

"Uh…noooo…"

"Right then.  There's our answer."  He grinned.  "They want us to work for them, they should bloody well pay us."

She pulled away at that, rolling her eyes.  "What about, we do it because it's the right thing to do?  _If_ it's the right thing to do," she was quick to clarify.

Spike grimaced, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand, though the tone of his voice was teasing.  "Load of rubbish.  The way I see it, we have a service that's in demand---.

"And the way I see it---."  Buffy cut herself off and sighed, but there was only an amused resignation in her tone.  "We're going to kill each other before Christmas.  You know that, right?"  

He smirked.  "Yeah, but it'll be fun while it lasts," he commented.  "'Sides, something tells me you might not mind a little anarchy every now and again, Summers.  You haven't lasted this long by always playin' by the rules."

"Hardly."  She was halfway across the threshold before she glanced back at him over her shoulder, a hint of a smile ghosting her lips.  "Well…maybe a little."

He waited until she had gone back into the cabin before chuckling.  Not that he was any less upset about being dragged into this mess, but somehow, it didn't seem quite so bad knowing that Buffy was just as ready to go down kicking as he was.

*************

She greeted him before he'd even properly entered the dining room.  "Mr. Giles," she said, her thin hand extended, a warm smile on her face.  "I'm so glad we finally meet."

His eyes narrowed in scrutiny even as he matched her movement.  Older than him by probably a decade, she was also nearly a foot shorter, lithe and graceful, her gray hair cut stylishly short.  Dark eyes sparkled as she looked up at him, and her palm was warm and strong.  "Maria, I presume," Giles said.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paul and Silas take their places at the table.  

"How are you feeling?" Maria asked after they'd broken apart.  "Silas informed me that your injuries didn't require a hospital, but if he was wrong…"

"Are you saying you would actually let me leave should I say yes?"  His voice was cold, but her friendliness was disarming him.  She was most certainly not what he expected, a tiny Mother Hubbard when he'd anticipated a Viking, perhaps with horns.  "I rather thought locking me in my room was to prevent my departure, or is that part of your welcoming package, as well as the breakfast in bed?"

She smiled.  "No, you don't need a hospital," she said, ignoring his question.  "I can see that your mind is as sharp as ever."  His latter words seemed to belatedly register, and she hesitated before turning to the table.  "Didn't you like the cream tea?" she asked.  "Huh.  I suspected you'd appreciate a small taste of home.  Silas and Paul certainly do."

"Breakfast was…lovely, but that's hardly the point."  Giles' feet remained rooted as she turned then, striding to take her seat at the head of the table.  "I demand to know what exactly I'm doing here.  What your purpose is in requiring my presence."

There was a flicker of something in her dark gaze as Maria reached for a steaming bowl of buttered carrots.  "You can always make the demand while you're eating," she said.  "It's a lovely dinner tonight.  It would be a shame to waste it."  

For a moment, Giles watched as the semblance of supper was enacted before him, the dishes being passed around and left waiting at the empty setting.  The rich smell of peppered steak made his nose prickle, and he consciously swallowed against the watering of his mouth as Silas drowned his mashed potatoes in thick gravy.  "Casual dining with my captors is not something I normally deign to do."

Maria shrugged, a fluid lift of her shoulders.  "Your loss, Mr. Giles.  Foolish, if you ask me.  Silas told you you'd get your answers, didn't he?  So, really, being stubborn and not eating is almost childish, I think."

He refused to be baited.  "Tell me why I'm here."

"To help me find my daughter," came the quick response.

"Your daughter?"  He frowned, taking a step closer.  "That sounds like a police matter, not one that requires a trio of Watchers."

"The police don't care about the world of Slayers," she said tightly.  "You three do."

His blood chilled at her bandying of the title, and Giles' nostrils flared as he kept his temper in check.  "You said this had nothing to do with Buffy," he accused the two men.

"And it doesn't, not directly," Maria said.  She waited until she had his attention again before continuing.  "It's about _all_ the Slayers, and all the potential slayers, so I suppose in that way, yes, you could say that this is about Buffy Summers, too."  She waved toward the empty chair.  "Do sit down, Mr. Giles.  There is so much for us to discuss, and I'm sure by the time you've heard the whole story, you'll understand just why it's so important we find Holly as soon as possible."

To be continued in Chapter 9: Marshmallows for Roasting…


	9. Marshmallows for Roasting

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike have learned that they are being held at the cabin until New Year's Day, in order to protect a girl named Holly, and neither is happy about it…

*************

He was stoking the fire when she came hobbling out of the bathroom, each stab of the burning tinder making the muscles left exposed by his t-shirt flex in a synchronous dance with the sparks that flew up the chimney.  For a moment, Buffy paused in the doorway, watching him as her hand gripped the jamb for support.  

In spite of her apparent conviction when she spoke to Spike on the porch, her head was a muddle---too many questions, not enough answers, and between each and every one of them, an annoying bleached vampire who refused to be ignored.  She'd meant it when she'd said they had to act as a team on dealing with this; she just hadn't bothered to mention how impossible it was for her to get her brain around the scenario in such a way that it wouldn't implode.  Of course, if he'd just stuck to his usual obnoxious Big Bad routine, the issue would be completely moot.  She could hate him, but do what she had to do to get out of their current sitch and help Giles.

But no, as par for the course, Spike had to upend everything she knew to be true and make her start doubting what she thought had been blatantly obvious.

By being helpful around the cabin.

By not putting up a bigger fight about the Jenny/First/Holly scenario.

By saving her life in the first place.

Stupid, annoying, unpredictable vampire…

She must've made a noise because his head jerked around at that last, and for a split second, Buffy wondered if she'd actually said it out loud.  "How does that one fire make the whole house so comfy cozy?" she asked brightly, avoiding his too-blue eyes as she started to hobble toward the couch.  Change of subject good, she thought.  Even if she was the only one in on the change.

"The world didn't just automatically get warm when they invented central heating, pet," he replied.  "And for someone who claimed to be on the mend, that's an awful convincin' Tiny Tim send-up you've got there."  Before she could respond, Spike met her halfway across the room, his arm going around her back to help support her, not moving even when she tried to push him away.  

"Get off," she argued.

"You need to be restin'."

"I'm fine."

"For now."  His hold vanished when they reached the couch.  "Put your feet up."

"You're a real mother hen, you know that?"  But she complied anyway, staying silent when he grabbed his leather from where it was draped over the opposite arm.

"And here I would've said, cock of the walk," Spike replied.  He laid the duster along her outstretched legs, tucking the ends under the sinewy muscles, a battery of firm suggestive touches that scaled down her calves and left her squirming against the cushion.  At her feet, he hesitated, his head tilting as if he was lost in ruminations unknown to her, and then, without even a glance back for her approval---because oh boy would she have said something about not going there if she'd suspected what he was going to do---he grasped her ankle and slid the boot away with a liquid speed that left her toes curling in shock.

She couldn't even ask what he was doing, though the words were right there on the tip of her tongue and begging to be released.  Off came the second shoe, joining its mate where he casually tossed it aside, and the draft that suddenly slithered around her soles made Buffy shiver.

"Thought you said the fever was gone," he accused with dark eyes finally turned to her.

"It is.  Just, you know…"  She wiggled her toes, desperate for anything that would break the stare he fixed on her, her mouth too dry to be more effective than a few words at a time, her mind racing in wonderment about whether he'd pull his vamp-ometer kissing trick on her again.  "Cold," she finished.  _I am CaveBuffy.  Here me roar._

"Hot, then cold," she heard him mutter as he wrapped the leather around her feet.  "So bloody predictable."

"What was that?"

"Nothin'."  He was up then, and with a quick survey of the room, headed for the kitchen.  "Feelin' peckish, Slayer?"

She didn't have to answer---her growling stomach did it for her---and Buffy flushed in anger and embarrassment when she heard him chuckle.  "I can cook, you know," she said sharply.  "You don't have to be masterchef all the time."  But even before she could pull the coat away to swing her legs over the side, Spike was back in her face, cool hands grasping her wrists in an unyielding grip.

"Not from here, you can't," he said.  "We had a deal, remember?"

"I wish I didn't."

"Wishes and horses, pet." 

"Huh?  There's a horse in it now?"

He looked at her in disbelief.  "Don't tell me Mother Goose is beyond the Slayer's understanding.  'If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride?'"   He waited for a sign of recognition, but, met only with Buffy's blank stare, Spike shook his head.  "Why do I even try?"

When he released her hands, she craned her neck to watch him saunter back to the refrigerator.  "So does this mean I don't get to cook?"

"This means, I don't fancy you startin' a grease fire when I'm surrounded by splinters," he retorted, looking pointedly at the wooden walls and floors.  "I was there at Thanksgiving, if you recall."

"That was an accident.  And Giles said those scorch marks came out of the cupboards without any trouble."

"Yeah, well, take it from the bloke who was actually livin' there.  He was lyin'."

"And what am I supposed to do?  Just lie here and heal?"

She scowled when the weight of the book landed in her lap, his casual aim making the title jump out at her from the cover.  _Children's Classic Fairy Tales_.  "Ha ha ha," she said under her breath, and gritted her teeth as his answering chuckle floated to her from the kitchen.

Arrogant bastard.

*************

Dinner proved to be soup and salad, and as she listened to Spike finish up the dishes, Buffy's thoughts wandered into the no-man's land she'd been avoiding since their mysterious guest's departure earlier that day.  She didn't want to; the prospect of turning her mind to other matters left a gaping hole in her stomach that made her want to bury her fist in something evil and pound it until it screamed for mercy.  But it did.  And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Jenny…Giles…the mysterious Holly…not one name didn't come attached to a headache.

If Jenny really was who she claimed to be, then doing this simple thing she asked was the least Buffy could do.  It wasn't as if it wasn't already her job or anything, and in the way of karmic paybacks, it was just a small step the Slayer could take to make it up to the teacher.  After all, it _was_ Buffy's fault she was dead in the first place.  If she'd only killed Angelus sooner…

Yep.  There it was.  The headache she'd been trying to dodge by not thinking about Miss Calendar.

The subject of Giles wasn't any better.  Who had him?  What did they want him for?  Was he hurt?  Did he know that she was OK?  Jenny had intimated that he'd been targeted by the ones who were after Holly, though how and why, she'd left no clues.  But as long as he was breathing, he would be worrying about Buffy, of that she was certain, and she hated not being able to confirm for him that she was all right.  Maybe next time Jenny showed up, she'd try and force a little more information from her.  Somehow, she got the feeling that there was more than the ghost was letting on.

The facts she'd shared about Holly had been precious few.  Female.  Wanted by baddies.  She had to stay alive until after midnight on New Year's Eve.  No why, no gruesome details of what color the world would be afterward if Buffy failed.  Just the general warning that it would be apocalyptic bad.  As if the Slayer wouldn't be able to understand a word she said that had more than one syllable in it.

Now, her eyeballs were pulsing in time with the ache in her head.  Crap.

A heavy sigh lifted her chest, and Buffy leaned back against the pillow Spike had brought out from the bedroom, her eyes drifting shut to deflect any more questions she didn't have answers for.  From the other side of the room, the steady weight of Spike's step approached, and she felt rather than saw him stop behind the couch.

"You all right there, Slayer?" he asked.

"Just spiff-spiff-spiffy," she replied, her tone so perky it hurt her ears.  

Pause.  "You're not goin' to get all maudlin and start boo-hooing about Rupert and this Holly bird, are you?" 

Her eyes flew open at that, to see an annoyed Spike gazing down at her.  "What?" Buffy said, her elbows tensing to lift herself up.

"I'm just sayin', we've got the better part of two weeks to spend in this place, and if you're startin' in with the waterworks already, it'd be nice to give a bloke the heads-up when it comes so he can get away and do something a bit more entertaining.  Like drivin' crosses into my eyes or something."

She sat up the rest of the way, the book in her lap tumbling onto the floor.  "I'm not crying," she said with a frown, the obvious assertion banishing her earlier thoughts to the wayside.

"No, you're dwelling.  Which often leads to crying.  Hence…the asking."

"I'm not dwelling!"

"What do you call it, then?"

"Thinking.  Very hard.  But not just one subject," she was quick to add when his eyebrows shot up.  "Because _that_ would be dwelling.  Lots of subjects.  Dozens, even."

"Like what?"

"Like…Jenny."

"Uh huh.  And?"

"And what?"

Spike rolled his eyes.  "This swarm of topics rolling around in your noggin.  Gypsy girl is one of 'em.  If you're not dwelling, what're the others?"

"Oh.  Well, Giles, of course."

"Part of the same subject, if you ask me.  Could technically classify as dwelling."

Pursing her lips into a tight line, Buffy glared at the vampire for a long second before speaking again.  Time to start being creative.  "I was thinking about the fire and how cozy it made it in here."  Ooo, good.  Go with the pre-dinner convo.

Amusement canted his mouth.  "Oh, lookie, she's got herself a whole two ideas in her head.  Will wonders never---."

"And dinner.  I was hoping you didn't use grease in my salad or anything."

Now it was a grin.  "Perish the thought."

"And toes."  She was on a roll now, determined to wipe that smile off his face if it was the last thing she did.  "And my shoes."

"Because the two just go hand in hand."

He was still laughing at her, damn it.  "And you," she said, before she could convince herself otherwise.  Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, she thought triumphantly when his grin faded.  Look at the Slayer be all multi-thought-having.

"Speakin' of hand in hand…" he murmured.  His eyes seemed too big for his face all of a sudden, because they were all she could see, bright and glittering and locked on hers.  "So…pondering the goings and comings of her new roommate has taken up residence in the Slayer's brain.  Color me shocked and bemused."

"Not in the way you're thinking," Buffy stammered.  "Just in the way of how you're not doing anything I expect.  Like…not bitching about being stuck here with me, and…and…taking care of me, making sure I'm warm, and fed, and…"  She was _too_ warm now, the leather stifling, drawing out the sweat from her flesh to begin running in tiny rivulets down her thighs.  The look on his face was all-too familiar, a leftover from before the chip days, when she was a tasty meal and something for him to watch and survey with the stealth he would need to take her down, but where before it had seemed menacing with intent, now it was…well, still menacing with intent, just a different kind of menacing.  More like wo-menacing, all come hither and suggestive…

Sexy…

"Hungry!" she blurted, intent on doing or saying anything that would expel the words sexy and Spike from intermingling so closely in her brain.

It worked.  "What's that?" he asked, solicitude battling confusion as his front slipped away.

"I'm hungry," she repeated.  

"You just ate."

 "So I want to eat again.  Is there any soup left?"  When he straightened and looked back at the kitchenette, Buffy exhaled as quietly as she could, only then realizing that she'd been holding her breath.  Close one.  Why was her head doing this to her?  It wasn't right that it kept bringing her back to the same place with Spike.  She hated him.  She wasn't supposed to think he was sexy.

Except…OK, maybe she didn't hate him.  Kind of hard to really hate someone who took such pains to see to her wellbeing.  Disliked, then.

But was that completely true, too?  If she disliked him so much, would she be so willing to side with him against whatever side Jenny was on?  Even when they'd teamed up together before, it hadn't been the same.  Buffy hadn't been alone in that fight.  Not before the final blow.  Afterwards…yes, but then that had been her choice, not theirs.

Now, it was just her.  And Spike.

And she was frighteningly OK with that.

It took a second for her to realize that he'd walked away and was standing before the open door of the refrigerator.  "Could do fruit again, I s'pose," he mused.

A rush of color came to her cheeks as she flashed on the hand of bananas she'd seen on the bottom shelf.  "No fruit!" she said too loudly, which merited a quirk of his brow when he glanced back at her.  "Chocolate, maybe?" she posited instead, and waited as he closed the door and began pulling open the cupboards.

Her eyes were on her fingers, watching them twist and worry the leather draped over her, when Spike's muffled "Oh!" drew her attention back in time to see his bleached head emerge from one of the lower cabinets.  In his hand was a large cellophane bag, with the unmistakable shapes of pink and white marshmallows clear within its transparency.  

"Fancy a cookout?" he asked as he strode determinedly to the fireplace.  The glee on his face was contagious, his eyes dancing with a light that Buffy couldn't help but grin at.

"You are the weirdest vampire I know," she commented, swinging her legs down from the couch.  "Where are my stakes?"

"Pointy enough but too thick."  With a quick snap, he broke a twig from the kindling pile and handed her half when she came and sat down on the opposite side of the hearth.

Buffy grimaced.  "It's dirty."

"It's texture."

"I like my marshmallows soft and gooey."

"And they will be, once they're in the flame."  He ripped open the bag with his teeth, a few marshmallows scattering to the floor.  "Now stop your whinging and get to roastin'."  He picked up one of the pink candies and tossed it at her.  "You get the girlie ones."

She rolled her eyes, but impaled the marshmallow on the end of her stick anyway.  "Like that isn't totally sexist."

"It's not."  Popping one of the white ones in his mouth, his words were muffled as he stuck another through his skewer.  "I'm a purist."

"So sayeth the vampire eating the marshmallowy goodness," Buffy announced.  Her smile belied the sarcasm of her tone, and she revelled in the heat creeping up her limbs from the flames before her.  It was almost cozy, if being held prisoner behind a magical wall with a vampire who drove her nuts could be called cozy.

"It's your mum's fault," Spike said.  He poked his stick into the heart of the flames, letting the white fluff ignite with a bright orange spark and holding it there while he spoke.  "Got me hooked good and proper with that hot chocolate of hers."  He stole a glance back at the kitchen.  "You don't s'pose they stocked us with that, do you?" he asked hopefully.

"Why do you do that?" Buffy said.  Carefully, she angled her marshmallow so that it hovered above the flames, its pink slowly deepening in color.

He looked back at her.  "Do what?"

"Eat so much people food."

His frown conveyed just how stupid he thought her question really was.  "Because it tastes good," he said, over-enunciating as if speaking to a child.

"Angel didn't."

Spike snorted.  "Well, yeah.  It's not like he was big on the makin' himself feel good front, pet.  All about the self-flagellation, he was.  Whatever it took to make his miserable existence even more bleedin' miserable.  You should know that better than anyone."

When he pulled his stick out of the fire, Buffy's nose wrinkled at the charred stump still flaming on its end.  "Ewww," she said.  "You're not actually going to eat that, are you?"

"'Course, I am."  Plucking at the black flakes, Spike poised the stick in readiness as the gooey center was exposed, then aimed it unswervingly at his open mouth to gobble it down.   His eyes closed in rapture, the groans of satisfaction rumbling from his chest as he sucked on the sugary treat, and his head tilted back as he swallowed, savoring every second of its journey down with a pleasure that was palpable.

Buffy smirked when he finally looked up.

"What?" Spike demanded.

"You look ridiculous," she replied.

"Do not.  Stuff's bloody marvellous."

"Oh yeah.  Crispy burned marshmallow is the height of haute cuisine."

Spike set to placing another one on the end of his skewer.  "Don't like it for what's on the outside, Slayer.  You like it for what's on the in."

She was thoughtful as she pulled hers away from the flame.  "Why haven't you been complaining more about this set-up?" she asked, not affording herself the luxury of looking at him as she blew on the golden marshmallow steaming in front of her.

"Is complaining goin' to change it in any way?"

"No."

"Then there's your answer."

He was gazing at the fire when she stole a peek at him.  "That didn't stop you at Giles'."

"At Rupert's, there was always the chance one of you'd break, or screw up enough so that I could get my own way," he replied.  "Can't really argue too much with magic.  Not unless you got the power to make it go away, which I don't."

"So, you only fight things you know you can beat?"

"Well, no…"  He frowned then, caught in the web of his own logic.  "I'll fight just about anything, if the reason's right enough."

She nibbled the corners off the marshmallow, rolling the tiny bits of sugar before swallowing them down.  Melted mallow began to ooze over the hardened exterior, and her tongue darted out to lap it up before it fell.  "Even if the reason is you're just bored," she teased.

The grin he flashed her was brilliant.  "Sounds right enough to me."

The silence that ensued was broken only by the crackling of the fire and Spike's sporadic groans of euphoria every time he swallowed one of the marshmallows.  Too soon, the heat from sitting so close to the flames made Buffy's skin start to tingle, and she suspected that if she touched them, her cheeks would be awash with fire.  As discreetly as she could manage, she began to inch away, trying to find the equilibrium between still reaching the flames with her stick and not feeling like someone was setting a torch to her clothing, her bottom sliding across the wooden floor.

The path she chose set her closer to Spike, and he glanced down at her curiously as he reached for another marshmallow.  

"I'm hot," she offered in explanation.

He made no immediate reply, just swept his gaze over her body, lingering on the swell of her bottom before lifting again to her flushed face.  "Carry on like that, pet, and a vamp could start gettin' certain ideas."

"Oh, please.  Gutter.  Out of it."

"And here I thought I was just joining you."  The reflection of the fire in his eyes made it impossible for her to tell if it was really him, or if his demon was poking its head out, and she stiffened as she waited for the words to follow.  "Seems to me that you've been the one so eager for all the touchy-feely.  Wakin' me up by pretending to be worried about a little scratch---."

"And waking me up by _groping_ me doesn't qualify as the same?" she retorted.  

"Don't tell me you didn't like it."  His voice was like bitter chocolate, melting and oozing and sucking the air from her lungs, forcing her to respond even when her common sense told her not to.  "That mouth of yours might love to lie to me, but your body doesn't know that language, luv.  I didn't do anything you weren't already wanting."

"I don't _want_ you, Spike."  Tight.  Through clenched teeth.  As firmly as she could manage to convince them both.

"Thought we were a team, Slayer.  Weren't you the one who put us on the same side not three hours ago?"

Why did it seem like he was closer?  "That's different."

"Is it?"

_Was it?_  He _was_ closer, his head cocked as his tongue ran along the edges of his incisors, and she could smell the sweetness of his breath with every word, the marshmallow scent thick in the air, making it impossible for her to inhale properly.  Reason told her he was just doing what he could to get under her skin; after all, annoying the Slayer was Spike's favorite pastime now that he couldn't kill one.  But was she annoyed?  She was hot, and her head was spinning, and every word from his mouth made her want to find some other way to shut him up, but whether that fell in the realm of annoyance, she couldn't determine.

"Something wrong?" he taunted.  "Don't tell me cat's got your tongue.  I can see it pokin' out from here."

"What?  Poking?  There's no poking!"

"Then maybe it's just that you're still hungry."  Before she could react, his hand curled around hers, pulling her skewer from the fire to draw it to them, tilting it so that the still glowing marshmallow rested against her lips.

They parted automatically, sucking at the sweetness as the melting goo threatened to run down her chin, drowning her taste buds in its luscious delicacy as her eyes locked on his.  Buffy's throat was closed, the uncontrollable pounding of her heart that had sprung from nowhere taking any and all available room, and she rolled the treat around on her tongue just as she'd done with the small morsels from the first, in hopes that she'd soon regain mastery of her body.

He was mesmerized by the movement of her mouth, the tiny slides of her jaw, the throbbing in the hollow of her throat.  She felt his fingers tighten around hers, but when his lips silently mouthed her name, Buffy panicked.

_Oh god.  What am I doing?_

Yanking her hand away, the twig fell to the floor as she jumped to her feet.  Its snap when she stepped on it boomed in her ears, the only thing louder her instinct to flee, and she grabbed her coat as she stumbled out the front door of the cabin.

To be continued in Chapter 10:  It Stings the Toes and Bites the Nose…


	10. It Stings the Toes and Bites the Nose

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.   
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  A too-close encounter at the fireplace has sent Buffy running from the cabin…

*************

Damn it.

Buffy mistake number one.  Letting him get to her.

It was only because her nerves were frayed to whip-cord strands that it was happening at all, she was sure.  Her defenses were down, and Spike's mindfucks were getting twisted around in the maelstrom of her situation.  Under any other circumstances, she wouldn't be rattled by a few inappropriate remarks, or the firm touch of his hand on hers.  It was just…things were weird right now.  Plus, no way could she discount the ADD vamp factor.  Spike got bored, Spike did what it took to entertain himself.  And it looked like seeing her squirm was at the top of the current Spike wishlist, making her writhe and twist and burn from whatever itch he managed to instill under her skin.  Making her hot…

Although, not really, not now, because…

Buffy mistake number two.  Running out of the cabin without first grabbing her shoes.

Looking down at her socks, Buffy grimaced as the snow that had blown onto the porch seeped through the cotton to start stinging at her soles.  That whole fight or flight instinct needed some serious reconsideration if it meant getting frostbit toes, but going back in now would ruin her exit.

Besides, Spike was still in there.  Spike and the marshmallows.  And the fire.  And that mouth with the tiny bit of fluff caught in the crease that made her want to lean forward and lick it off.

OK, so maybe only her toes were cold.  The rest of her seriously needed to rethink the whole issue of spontaneous combustion.

Damn it.

*************

He had to give her credit; she'd lasted longer than he thought she would.  

Between the comfort of their banter and the saccharine bliss of the marshmallows, Spike had been lulled into a thrumming balm, the edges of the world blurring into a relief of orange and scarlet and burnished Slayer skin.  Only when she began inching herself away from the flames and toward him did those edges whet themselves into a ready blade, keen and willing to slice through any part of his anatomy she might choose.  Her smell was intoxicating, all fire and spun sugar, and the opportunity to play into it had been impossible to resist, driving him to taunt her with carefully chosen words, each one designed to make her squirm before running away with her virtue tucked between her legs.

It was that last marshmallow that was his downfall, watching it in hungry fascination as something inside Spike came undone.

Even after the door slammed shut behind Buffy, he remained rooted in his seat, his body screaming at him to go after her while his head shouted at it to shut the fuck up.  _Don't be daft_, he wanted to say.  _Slayer, remember?  Stake me in half a heartbeat if she knew I just got hard for her._

Not that he was proud of the fact.  Having his cock straining in his jeans when there was bugger all chance of anything serious happening with Buffy was about as frustrating as being stuck in that soddin' wheelchair.

With a groan, Spike slumped against the couch, propping his elbows on his bent knees as his fingers worried through his hair.  Whoever it was who decided to shackle him with the Slayer in the babysitting job from hell was a sick and twisted bastard, though if it had happened to anyone else, he would've been applauding the genius of it from the sidelines.  But here he was, stuck with the one creature walking this planet that drove him crazier than any other, and there she was…

…His gaze lifted to look at the door through which she'd just stormed, but was immediately captured by the casually tossed items by its frame, rolling his eyes in exasperation…

…and there were her shoes, the dozy bint.

His cross mood evaporated as he stared at the boots he'd pulled off her feet earlier, strewn with the carelessness of home.  She was out there now, standing around in her stockinged feet, probably still too wound around that stick up her ass to come in and retrieve what would make her trek into the winter wonderland a tad more tolerable.  No way she wouldn't notice soon, though.  Her ankle may be faring better, but it was still troubling her, and she'd be feeling the effects of the cold soon enough.

_Probably get herself sick again in the process, too.  Wouldn't that be a hoot and a half._

Balling his hands into fists, Spike straightened, lifting his chin in determination.  He wasn't going to go chasing after her this time.  Let her fetch her own damn shoes.

*************

She'd just about kill for a watch.  Had it been long enough yet?  If she went back inside now, would Spike have dropped his Vampentino act and leave her alone?  Did she _want_ to be left---OK, not even going to _finish _thinking that question.  Maybe it was time to go to bed…and the fact that they were both two of the most nocturnal animals she knew was something _else _she wasn't going to dwell on.

Surely, five more minutes would be long enough.  She'd just count to…

Crap.  Buffy grimaced.  OK.  Sixty seconds in a minute, times five minutes…was that three hundred?  Where was Willow when she needed her?  She'd know.  The girl was a walking abacus.

Three hundred.  Whether it was right or not.  That's what she'd count to.

"One, two, three…"

Her breath clouded before her face, yet another reminder of just how frigid the exterior air was, and Buffy leaned against the wall of the cabin, relieving her ankle of some of her weight.  It was starting to throb, and not only from the cold.

_Maybe I should just go back in.  Maybe I'm just overreacting._

"…twelve, thirteen, fourteen…"

_What is he doing in there? For someone who wouldn't even let me walk across the room on my own, why isn't he out here demanding I get my ass back inside?_

"…twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…"

_He's probably too busy stuffing his face with the rest of the marshmallows.  Stupid, sugar-addicted, freaky vampire---._

"Well, well, well, knew we'd get ourselves a treat, but didn't think we'd get two of them."

The drawl slithered over her skin, and Buffy stiffened as the two dark shadows emerged from the forest.  As she took a single pace forward, two sets of golden eyes sharpened in her view, and she quirked an eyebrow as she looked innocently about her.  "Are you drunk as well as ugly?" she asked.  "'Cause…I only see one of me.  Not that I don't think it might be kind of cool to have another me to help out with the homework, maybe take my finals and such, but still, just me here."

The taller, skinny vampire who'd already spoken leered, his fangs glinting in the light cast through the cabin window.  "We're looking for the girl, Barbie doll.  Give her over and we'll make it quick for you."

The girl.  The Slayer felt her insides freeze at what had to be another reference to Holly.  More demons who were after her; maybe the Jenny ghost wannabe had been on the up-and-up after all.  "It's Buffy," she retorted automatically, maintaining an air of nonchalance in spite of the churning inside her head.  "Not Barbie."

The short vampire snorted, turning to look at his partner, the greasy hair he had pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck swinging.  "Hey," he laughed.  "She's got the same name as the vampire slayer."

"That's because I _am_ the vampire slayer, Ponyboy," she said.

"Impossible."  Stilts grabbed the railing and climbed the bottom porch stair.  "The Slayer's on the Hellmouth."

She stopped at the top and stared down.  "Welcome to my home away from home, boys."  Her good foot shot out, clipping across the vamp's jaw and sending him sprawling back into the nearest snowdrift.  

Ponyboy grabbed his mate under the arms, and dragged him away from the house.  "That bitch didn't tell us anything about the Slayer being here," he complained.  "This isn't what I signed up for."

"Stop your bellyaching.  We've got a job to do, and we're going to do it."  Stilts turned a dangerous gaze to Buffy.  "Besides, there's two of us and only one of her."  After a pointed sniff to the air, he added, "And she's not exactly up to par, are you, Slayer?"

"Which just means it's going to take me a little bit longer to kick your ass."  All thoughts of her cold feet vanished when he leapt forward again, this time avoiding the stairs to tackle her around her midsection, and the pair went down in a tangle of limbs onto the porch.

Buffy grunted when a fist slammed into her stomach, but she held firm as she brought her feet up to launch him back over her head.  Rolling to the side, she caught Ponyboy out of the corner of her eye, stealthily trying to sneak up from behind.  _I don't think so_, she thought, and grabbed the tip of an icicle forming on the railing to break it off.  When she felt his hand wrap around her ankle, her body twisted to drive the icicle into his wrist.

Ponyboy howled in pain, falling back to clutch his arm to his chest.  "Bitch!" he snarled.  A quick yank pulled the driven ice from the wound, and he dropped the blood-stained spear onto the step.

"Might as well get two for the price of one," Buffy muttered.  Before either of them could react, the icicle was back in her grip, and this time, she whirled to face Stilts, driving it into his gut.

The tall vampire growled, but didn't stop his advance, launching again to drive the Slayer back into the snow.  The impact loosened a flurry of white from the eave, and it fell with a wet squelch next to Buffy's head, half of the snow stinging her cheek where the cold spilled.  For a split second, the sensation of choking clogged her throat as stray flakes managed to make their way inside her mouth.

She reacted blindly.  Shoving him off, she grabbed one of the porch posts and snapped it from its mooring.  She broke it over her knee, and, as they approached her from opposite sides, Buffy drove the jagged wooden ends reflexively into each of the vampire's chests.  Something in her wrist gave way with the impact, but the Slayer's cry of pain was cut off when she was seized in a sudden coughing fit from the scattering dust.

"You're a bloody piece of work, you know that?"

Her eyes narrowed as she turned to see Spike lounging in the open door, her shoes hanging from his left hand as if he'd been interrupted from bringing them out to her.  "Enjoy the show?" she asked, struggling to her feet.  Her socks were soaked, her toes beginning to burn from the frigid wet, and Buffy was pretty sure she'd broken something in her wrist again.  Damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her in pain, though.

Spike shrugged.  "Not your best work, but that icicle trick was a bit of all right.  Probably worth the price of admission just for that."  He glanced at the dust darkening the snow.  "Lemme guess.  This was about that Holly bird again."

"They complained that whoever hired them didn't tell them I was here," she said with a nod.  "And they referred to the boss as female, so at least that part of Jenny's story is holding up."  Her face screwed up in thought.  "What did Jenny say her name was again?"

"Maria.  This doesn't mean you're gettin' on board with what they have in mind, does it?  'Cause I thought we'd agreed to tell them to stuff it."       

Adamantly, Buffy shook her head, but then hesitated.  "I'm just reluctant to do any kind of stuffing right about now," she said.  In her distraction, she missed both the innuendo in her words and the wicked gleam that curled the corner of Spike's mouth.  "At least," she continued, "not until this Holly shows up.  There's too many things we still don't know."

"Know one thing.  You're not goin' to do anyone any good you keep channeling Francis the Talking Mule."  Shaking his head, Spike dropped her shoes inside the door and strode forth in determination, scooping her into his arms.  "You have got to be the most stubborn girl I've ever had the misfortune of knowing."

"What're you---?" she started to say as she struggled against him, but the instant all the strain was taken from her muscles, Buffy felt herself automatically melt into his hold, unsolicited relief drawing out a sigh.  "You have really got to stop doing this.  I'm not a baby."

"Then stop acting like one.  Stayin' out without your shoes was stupid and you know it, Slayer."

At least she had the courtesy to blush.  "Is there anything you _don't_ overreact to, Spike?" she said in annoyance.  She tried to wriggle her toes, and frowned.  "Although…"

He stopped just outside the door.  "Although what?"

Buffy ducked her gaze under his intense glare.  "My feet feel funny."

"Funny how?"

"My toes are numb and kind of tingly."

Spike muttered under his breath, his pace quickening as he carried her over the threshold.  Lashing out with his heel, the door slammed behind him, and Buffy jerked at the sound, her head whipping around to stare at the entrance just before he dropped her onto the couch.

"Hey!"

"Keep still," he barked, pressing her back into the cushion when she tried to rise.  Strong fingers grasped her ankle and Spike peeled her left sock off, dropping it to the floor with an audible squelch.  "Damn it," she heard him mutter before he rose and crossed behind the sofa toward the kitchen.

"What is it?"

"Get the other sock off."  

She heard the water start flowing in the sink, and though the urge to see what he was doing was great, she did what he said, looking down at the small white patches along the top of her feet.  "Is it frostbite?"  The question came out before she could stop it, and she leaned forward to poke at the skin.

"Not yet."  He appeared back at her side, a basin of warm water in his hands.  With a frowning tilt of his head, Spike swept his gaze over her legs before setting down the water.  "You're goin' to have to get out of those pants," he said.  At her visible shock, he rolled his eyes.  "They're damp from the snow," he explained, gesturing toward the damp cuffs.  "The wet will draw the heat and you need to be thawin' those toes of yours if you don't want to be called Stumpy the Vampire Slayer."

"Oh.  I think there's some pajama shorts in one of the drawers."  She watched as he began striding toward the bedroom.  "And bring me a blanket to change under!"

*************

The two women watched the golden flicker of the cabin lights dance across the snow.  "You really should've told them," the first one said.

Jenny glanced at her companion.  "You know I couldn't," she said.  "We were specifically told not to."  
The first woman shrugged.  "That still doesn't make it a good idea.  Buffy gets pissed when people hold out on her.  She is _not_ going to be a happy camper if she finds out you held back information.  You'd think you would've learned that when you were still alive."

"And what was I supposed to say?"  Jenny's gaze was open, but quizzical.  "'Hey, Buffy, you know the girl we're asking you to protect?  Just so you know, if she dies, so does the whole Slayer line which includes you.'"  She shook her head.  "It's better this way.  The Powers know what they're doing."

"Funny, but I didn't hear the Powers telling us to sic a couple of vamps on her."

"Motivation.  She needs to believe that there's a genuine risk to Holly."

"There _is_ a genuine risk."

"Yes, but we have to be sure she's going to do it.  After our confab this afternoon, I'm not positive she will."  Jenny sighed, her eyes returning to the cabin.  "And I'm even less convinced that Spike will be of any help in this at all."

"You don't have to worry about Spike."  Jenny's companion swiveled her head to watch the shadows passing by the windows, the unmistakable shape of the vampire stopping behind the glass.  "He's got a way of surprising people.  Especially himself."

To be continued in Chapter 11: Do You Hear What I Hear?...


	11. Do You Hear What I Hear?

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  Excerpts from Spike's reading are from Gustave Flaubert's _Salammbo_.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Giles has dined with Maria and the others to find out what exactly he's doing there, while Buffy has fended off another attack from vamps who are after Holly, only to end up getting frostnip on her toes and hurting her wrist again…

*************

Under other circumstances, he would've been able to appreciate the night.  Crisp and inky, the sky beckoned to Spike through the forest's spidery branches, glittering with long-dead light that made the snow shimmer like a mirage beneath his boots.  If Dru had been with him, he was certain that she'd be in the thrall of some rapt conversation with her twinkly oracles, and for once, he almost wished he had the same skill.  Maybe they could tell him what the hell was going on inside his head, because he for one had no fucking clue.

He had just finished a long patrol around the perimeter of their prison, having abandoned the Slayer as soon as he'd fetched her change of clothes, silently trusting that she'd do the smart thing for once and use the basin of warm water he'd given her for thawing her feet.  The cabin had seemed stifling, the fire he'd been entranced by uncomfortably blistering, and the excuse of looking for more potential attackers had been perfect for fleeing her presence.

Spike was furious, and not finding any more demons upon which to vent his frustration had done little to dissipate the burn that hummed through his veins.  Not only had Buffy rebroken her wrist in her fight with the two vamps, the stubborn cow had gone and gotten frostnip on her feet from standing out in the snow for too long.  It was a mild case, but that didn't stop him from being annoyed at her.  If she hadn't run outside, she wouldn't have gotten herself into the mess in the first place.  

Of course, if she hadn't run outside, he held little doubt that he wouldn't have been able to resist the draw of her scent, or the swell of her mouth, or avoid reaching out to touch the satin luster of her skin.  Even thinking of it now, his body betrayed him with the resounding pitch of his muscles, hardening and throbbing in an imagined accord as he remembered crumbling at the sight of Buffy's rapture.  Or was it _his_ rapture?  The lines were already blurring in Spike's head, though one thing remained crystal-clear.

The look in her eye when he'd touched her.

As if, for the first time, she _saw _him.

The Slayer wasn't the only target of his fury, though.  He'd deliberately stood in the doorway and watched her battle the two vampires, not once considering jumping in to lend her a hand.  She didn't need his help to beat them; they were both obviously young, and though the snow was an unexpected hindrance, Buffy proved with her icicle trick that she was more than resourceful enough to compensate for her surroundings.  Besides, watching her fight was better than watching _Passions_.  He'd have to be thick as a brick to miss that opportunity.

On the other hand, by doing nothing, Spike had left her to get hurt again when she should've been on the final side of mending.  Her broken wrist was entirely his doing, just as the frostnip was also his fault.  If he'd not been so stubborn about bringing out her shoes sooner, she wouldn't have to be soaking her feet in the cabin now, trying to fight back the damage the cold had done.

The damage _he'd_ done.

As the cabin loomed before him, Spike swore under his breath.  The idea of going back inside was almost enough to send him walking in the opposite direction.  Only the hope that the Slayer might actually be asleep already, thus avoiding any confrontation, kept his stride forward.  

That, and his stomach was growling like a son of a bitch.  Guilt had a way of making him hungry.

Fuck.  He did _not_ just think of himself as feeling guilty.

With a violent shake of his head in an attempt to clear it, Spike pushed open the front door, his eyes automatically straying to the couch.  The words were out of his mouth before he could even consider stopping them.

"What in bloody hell are you doin'?"

Buffy jerked from the massage she was giving her feet, shrinking away when he stormed forward and grabbed her hands to keep them from their task.  "They hurt," she complained, and freed herself from his grasp.  "They were all tingly and I thought I'd just give them a rubdown to make them feel better.  What's your damage, Spike?"

"My _damage_," he said, mocking her tone, "is that I don't fancy catering to you any more than I already am.  You can't touch where you've been frostnipped.  Rub 'em down and you destroy the muscles before they can heal themselves, Stumpy."

"Oh."  She didn't seem to know how to take this information, and looked disappointedly at her feet, her tanned legs stretched out before her.  "Not even a little?" she asked.  "What about just kind of poking them?  That can't be bad, right?"

He caught her in mid-reach, staying the arc of her arm.  "No.  Touching," Spike reiterated.  He stood like that for a long moment, cold fingers wrapped around her hot hand, staring down at her in ice-blue frustration, and understood in the flash of a second the grief her Watcher went through.

The realization was an electrical bolt through his veins, releasing his grip and whirling him in a circle of ebony leather as he marched toward the kitchen.  Along the way, he shed his coat, dropping it to the table and well out of her reach---_daft bitch can do well enough without her vamp security blanket for a change_---and fought back the fury that was threatening yet again to swell inside.

"Go to sleep, Slayer," he ordered, yanking open the refrigerator door.  The packet of blood was in his hands, his demon already out to slice through the plastic with a sharp fang, before he heard her move, heard the faint rustle of the blanket as it slipped to the wooden floor.  _Not looking back, not looking back_, he intoned silently, and instead focused on the task of warming his food, the comforting familiarity of pouring the liquid into the small pan, grabbing the spoon to stir it so that it wouldn't scorch while it heated.  _I'd just tear her head off for bein' a stubborn chit and then get my own headache in turn.  Not looking back.  Don't care what she says._

"I'm not tired," she said, and he could almost hear the pout in her voice.

"So fuckin' _get_ tired," Spike muttered.  His stirring grew more rigorous and splashes of blood jumped over the side of the pan, dotting the stovetop in crimson.  He couldn't deal with her right now, not with the Gordian tapestry his thoughts were weaving.  Hate her, admire her, want to rip her throat out in one moment, want to kiss and suck at it the next.  Repulsion…desire…frustration…wonder…strand after strand after strand that mocked him with ease when offered singly, but laughed in merriment by knotting together and refusing to come undone.  If he could just pull one…

But no.  Not even that would make the lot unravel, and Spike just knew without examining it any closer that doing so would be wrong anyway.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

He didn't even bother to reply.  From her angle, he thought it was pretty obvious what he was doing, and so he'd just make it known through his silence that her sad little attempt to make conversation wasn't going to work.  Even though he had to literally bite his tongue not to say anything.

The hush stretched into painful proportions, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire and the metallic clink of the spoon.  "What's with being so Oscar the Grouch?" Buffy finally asked.

"What's with the Chatty Cathy routine?" he shot back.  Only then did Spike allow himself the luxury of stealing a glance, his intent that it last only the second it would take to satisfy his curiosity, but he froze when his gaze settled on her.

She was kneeling on the couch, leaning against its back to watch him work in the kitchen.  From behind her, the fireplace cast its illumination, brightening her hair to sun-kissed sand but leaving her face shadowed and solemn as she seemed to wait for some unseen signal to speak.  He could still see her eyes, though, and it was the look there that scattered the disquiet furled into coils around his gut, locking him into place with the naked honesty that gleamed in the green.

"It hurts," Buffy said softly, like each word stung to admit.  "And I'm trusting that you're right about not massaging it if I don't want to make it worse.  So pardon me if I thought keeping myself distracted by chatting might make it a little easier to deal with."

"Don't really feel up to the parlez vous, pet," Spike said, just as quietly.  He tore himself away, reaching for a mug and emptying the saucepan though he could still her eyes burrowing into his back.

"You're not going to bed, are you?"

"Hadn't counted on it.  Someone's got to keep an eye out in case we get an encore from another gruesome twosome."

"But you won't talk to me."

He stared at the blood in the cup, the fluid made darker by the black ceramic surrounding it.  "Tried that earlier, remember?" he said.  "You opted for the ice queen road instead."  Sipping at his drink, he crossed to the shelves and picked up the book he'd been reading before heading for the small table.

"So you're going to read instead?"

"That's what it looks like."

Quiet.  Heavy and oppressive and so glazed in viridian, Spike swore he could hear every blink of her lashes as she watched him stare blindly at the words before him.  His eyes swept over the page once…twice…three times, each pass failing to reveal any more of the text, before he growled and scraped his chair back across the floor.

"Lay down, Slayer," he said, marching toward the sofa with the book tucked into his hand.

There was a moment of hesitation before she complied, stretching back along the length as her gaze followed his approach.  "What're you going to do?" asked Buffy.

He settled in the far cushion of the couch.  "Way I see it, you need to sleep and you're not goin' to let me be until you are.  So, if you won't let me read in peace, I'll just have to share it, is all.  Five minutes of Flaubert and you should be out for the count, courtesy of bein' a card-carryin' member of the MTV generation."

She grimaced.  "You can't read something else?" she complained.  "I saw the movie during one of Xander's video nights, and outside of those little jiggly green guys bouncing around, I didn't think it was all that cute."

"Somehow I don't think ol' Gustave set out to be ticklin' your funny bone when he wrote it, Slayer.  Unless you think gore and carnage in Carthage is particularly amusing, in which case, you'll probably think this is a bloody riot."

"That doesn't sound like the movie I saw."

"I'd wager not."  Nimble fingers thumbed through the pages, finding the spot where he'd left off.  Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Spike cleared his throat, staring at the book as the question of _what the hell am I doing?_ rambled around inside his skull.

"'She wished to learn the future,'" he started, his voice semi-flat.  "'…and approached the serpent---.'"

"Wait."  He looked up to see her frowning at him.  "You're not starting from the beginning."

"Uh, no.  I've already read that part."

"I haven't."

"And that's my problem because…?"

"I won't know what's going on."

"You're s'posed to be gettin' a bit of kip anyway."  He turned back to the book.  "Live a little on the edge, Slayer.  Playin' it safe's for pansies."

As he resumed reading, Spike's nerves slithered in response to her steady gaze on him, knowing without needing to look that she was staring and wondering what he was playing at.  Not that _he_ actually knew, but damned if he was going to let her know that.

"'…approached the serpent, for auguries were drawn from the attitudes of serpents.  But the basket was empty; Salammbo was disturbed…'"

In, and out, and in, and out, and in again, each breath that should've been leading to slumber still too shallow and still too rapid to mean anything but that Buffy was far from falling asleep.  If he concentrated, Spike thought he might actually be able to hear the blood rushing through her veins, a soft swirl of bittersweet and fire to contest the heat of the flames that crackled in the hearth.  But he couldn't do that, shouldn't do that, wouldn't do that, because doing that would be tantamount to conceding defeat, letting her win by making him lose control when he already had so little of it.

"'…She found him with his tail rolled round one of the silver balustrades beside the hanging bed, which he was rubbing in order to free himself from his old yellowish skin, while his body stretched forth gleaming and clear like a sword half out of the sheath…'"

His voice faltered for the briefest of moments when Buffy stretched out her legs, her calves coming to rest across the top of his thighs.  The iced patches across the top and sides of her feet were fading, but they were still too stark against the golden tan of her skin, glaring at him in reproach for daring to brand her flesh with his negligence.  His jaw tightened.  It shouldn't be like this.  He should be dancing with proverbial joy at seeing the Slayer incapacitated.  But he wasn't.  It was a bloody ridiculous way to be ambushed, and she, more than most, deserved better than that.

"Don't stop."

Her words were barely above a whisper, but they clamored in Spike's ears, drawing his eyes away from the ashen mottling on her feet to the luminescence of her aspect.  Black had devoured the green, and she watched him with a gravity that made him wonder if she was really aware of what she was doing to him.

"Close your eyes, Buffy," he murmured, and waited the long seconds before she obeyed.  "Can't expect to sleep if you don't."

It dawned on him when he turned back to the book that he'd called her by name, but shook it off.  He was allowed to slip up every once in a while.

"'…The white light seemed to envelop her in a silver mist, the prints of her humid steps shone upon the flagstones, stars quivered in the depth of the water; it tightened upon her its black rings that were spotted with scales of gold.  Salammbo panted beneath the excessive weight, her loins yielded, she felt herself dying, and with the tip of its tail the serpent gently beat her thigh; then the music becoming still, it fell off again…'"

A log fell in the fireplace, desiccated and charred but still echoing against the walls.  Buffy's legs jerked in his lap, her muscles rubbing against his, and he felt rather than heard the corresponding jump in her heart rate.  Though his reading never stumbled, Spike's attention was split between the words on the page and the body stretched out beside and atop him, his every sinew waiting for her to return to her relaxed state.  It didn't happen right away, but as he finished the chapter and moved to the next, the vampire suspected that the story was working against him here, winding her up instead of winding her down.

"'…Matho did not hear; he was gazing at her, and in his eyes, her garments were blended with her body.  The clouding of the stuffs, like the splendor of her skin, was something special and belonging to her alone…"

He so desperately wanted to shift her legs, to remove the pressure their fine weight was exerting on the length of his erection, rubbing the rough seam of his jeans just enough to keep it in the forefront of his mind.  Was she even aware of his excitement? he mused.  He doubted it.  She wouldn't be so calm and unmoving if she knew.  Of course, the evening of her breath, and the slowing of her pulse, told him that she was finally being lulled into sleep.  That could most likely explain her ignorance of his arousal.

"'…He was carried away by ungovernable curiosity; and, like a child laying his hand upon a strange fruit, he tremblingly and lightly touched the top of her chest with the tip of his finger…'"

There was no denying the rhythm of Buffy's body now, and Spike finally looked away from the book to see the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept.  It was hypnotic, just as mesmerizing as the heat that washed from her flesh, and the cabin dissipated into a muddy haze on the fringe of his vision.  As had happened before the fireplace when he'd steered the marshmallow to her mouth, all Spike could see was Buffy, and the urge to begin massaging away the pain in her feet swelled inside him.  He knew he couldn't; he'd been telling her the truth about it being detrimental to her recovery.  But he also knew it would temporarily alleviate her discomfort, and for the space of that second, that seemed more important than any far-reaching ramifications.

He shook off the spell and turned back to the book.  Just keep reading, he told himself.  You'll stay out of trouble that way.

*************

The books that lined the wall blurred in his vision, in spite of the spectacles that were still perched on Giles' nose.  He was exhausted, and his head ached, but the thoughts that churned inside refused to be put to rest, raising question after question, scenario after scenario, making him wish he'd never even considered accepting the speaking engagement.  Maybe then, he wouldn't be in his current predicament.

He knew that was false thinking, though.  Maria was quite adamant that she needed him in her search for her daughter, and throughout the course of the evening, it had become increasingly obvious that she had been prepared to do whatever it took to get him onboard.  That didn't make his decision any easier; if anything, Giles found himself wondering how someone so rabid about maintaining the Slayer order could've stayed outside of Council radar for so long.

There was a soft knock at his door, prompting an automatic, "Come in," before he could think otherwise.

It opened to reveal a nervous Paul, dark shadows beneath his eyes announcing his fatigue with the late hour.  His fingers played with the doorknob as his gaze swept the clean interior of the room.  "You're not packed."

Giles leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.  "Did you expect me to be?"

"We weren't…certain," Paul admitted.  "You were unexpectedly reserved once you sat down for tea.  Silas and I have been sitting down in the drawing room, wondering how long it would take you to either join us or announce that you were leaving."  He took a tentative step forward, though his hand never left the door.  "Have you reached a decision?"

"I don't see where I have much of a choice.  Telling me that Maria's daughter has the capability of killing Buffy is just as effective as putting me under lock and key, don't you think?"

Though Giles' tone was cold, the admission that he would be staying on was enough to relieve some of the tension in Paul's stance.  "Maria will be extremely pleased to hear this," he said.  "Your participation is vital to our success.  The knowledge you bring to the table---."

"Yes, yes."  Giles cut the sycophantic babbling off with a curt wave of his hand.  "I'm not prepared to do anything tonight, though," he went on.  "And I wish to speak to Maria first thing in the morning regarding what she will need to do in order to ensure my full cooperation."

For a moment, he faltered.  "You…wish to be paid?"

"Hardly.  But since it's her interference that has either hurt or put Buffy in danger, I expect the least she can do is try to compensate for that."  He rose from his seat and turned his back on his visitor to cross the room to the bathroom.  "I'm turning in for the evening," Giles said.  "I suggest you do the same."

From the sanctuary of the adjoining room, he listened to the soft click of the outside door, sagging in exhaustion to the side of the tub as he exhaled heavily.  Maria's claim that her daughter had devised a way to destroy the Slayer line, whether true or not, was serious enough an allegation to warrant further investigation.  Really, he had no choice but to stay and find out what he could, regardless of the questions that were reeling inside his head or his attitude toward the other Englishmen.  He just couldn't let them gain the upper hand.

Giles sighed, rubbing wearily at his eyes.  He would do this for Buffy, and hopefully, she was still alive to benefit from the outcome.

To be continued in Chapter 12: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas…


	12. It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christ...

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Giles has agreed to help Maria find her daughter, while an injured Buffy has fallen asleep under Spike's watch…

*************

She woke to the overwhelming scent of pine.

Groaning as she rolled away from where she was curled into the back of the couch, Buffy blinked against the sight of a looming green hulk not four feet away, leaning against the window its needled branches effectively blocked.  The irrational thought of _am I still in the cabin?_ darted through her head as she propped herself up on her elbow to take a closer look.  Almost immediately, though, a stab of pain shot up her arm, and she winced as she fell back against the pillow, cradling her broken wrist close to her chest.

"Took you long enough, Slayer."  From behind the couch, Spike suddenly appeared over her, and Buffy frowned as she noted both the wet curls announcing his recent shower and the fresh scratches across his cheeks.

"There's a tree in the house," she said.

His eyes jumped to the window, and then settled back on her in mild annoyance.  "Yeah?"  

She pursed her lips together, his condescending response to her statement causing her own irritation to flare.  "_Why_ is there a tree in the house?"

"'Cause I put it there."

"And you did this because there's no such thing as being too close to Mother Nature?"

With a roll of his eyes, Spike shook his head, pivoting on his heel to disappear from her view again.  "I did it 'cause you were whinging about bein' stuck here for Christmas, you bint," he said.  "Got an eyeful of dead birds' nest for my trouble, and this is the appreciation I get?  Thanks ever so."

The declaration of the tree's true purpose made her sit up again, this time mindful of keeping her weight off her wrist.  What she expected to see wasn't what she was met with, however, and Buffy's jaw dropped as she watched her now-hostile roommate pick up a mug of blood and head for the ladder to the loft.

Every cupboard in the kitchen was open, half their contents spread out on the floor, the counters, the table…really, any surface that could accommodate them.  Scattered among the bags and boxes of food were various greeneries---and redderies, and orange-eries, and even a yellow-erie, if she was being exact---that she'd seen growing in the flora outside.

"What is all this?" she asked.  "And why are you leaving it for me to clean up?"

"It looks like Christmas," he shot back, more than a little sarcastic.  "And now that you've finally decided to grace me with your wakeful self, you can do the sortin' of what'll work on that bloody tree 'cause I'm goin' to bed."

He was up the ladder and out of her sight before she could bite out some quippy remark, but in all honesty, Buffy wasn't sure she had it in her just then.  Her gaze returned to the array around the kitchenette.  As her thoughts began to shed the dullness of sleep, she came to the incredible realization that Spike had gone out and---somehow---chopped down a pine tree, dragged it back to the cabin, and then proceeded to extract anything inside their prison that might be useful as an ornament.  The details of why weren't exactly clear, but for some reason, he'd taken it upon himself to give her the appearance of a merry Christmas, even if she wasn't anywhere near her home or her mother at the moment.

_What does he want?_ she wondered as she pushed the blankets off.  _I wasn't complaining about the Christmas lackage _that_ much…was I?_

Before she could posit any theories, however, the aching prickling of her feet yanked her from her current contemplations and back into the muddle of emotions that had been the previous night.  Spike reading to her had taken her completely by surprise, and though she'd only wished for a conversation to act as distraction from the pain, Buffy had been more than content with the storytelling hour as an effective substitute.

Well, maybe _content_ wasn't the right word.

More like…

…turned on as hell.

It most definitely wasn't the Robin Williams movie that Xander had made her watch---though if the video store had a tape about this Salammbo chick, Buffy was sure going to be recommending _that_ one on the next movie night---and Spike's voice had warmed to the task quickly, lilting over the lyrical passages with a liquid sensuality that made her feel as if she was being draped in toasted raw silk.  She'd been riveted by his profile, fixated on the way his mouth moved over the words and remembering how he'd looked in the flickering shadows cast by the fire. 

And then he'd stopped, and the air had been oppressive and hollow without the sound of him, without the presence of his voice, and she didn't know why, and she didn't _care_ why, but having him continue had seemed like the most important thing in the world right then, and she would've done almost anything to make it happen.

So when he instructed her to close her eyes, she'd done so, though the instinct to argue with him about it had risen for the briefest of moments.  Maybe it was the way he said her name that stopped her tongue, because Spike _never_ called her by her real name.  Or maybe it was the coiled tension she could feel in his limbs, like he wanted to run but was bound to the couch by some unseen force that only he was aware of.  Or maybe it was the naked self-recrimination she'd caught in the almost black of his eyes before he shifted to something she didn't dare recognize.

Whatever the reason, she'd complied, and it had seemed like forever before he'd resumed his reading, the minutes escaping her as sleep finally won.

Now here she was, waking up to a vampire's idea of Christmas decorations, and she didn't know what to think anymore.

The understanding that she really hadn't known what to think the previous night either was quickly dismissed as Buffy rose from her makeshift bed.  She had things to do this morning---not the least of which was to figure out what to do with the six-foot fire hazard now leaning only three feet away from the fireplace---but first things first.

Shower.

*************

When he heard the water start running in the bathroom, Spike finally allowed himself to relax back into the pillows.  No confrontation then.  Good.  Wasn't entirely sure what he'd be able to say to her anyway.

It had seemed like a bloody brilliant idea at four o'clock in the morning.  For too long after he'd stopped reading, Spike had watched Buffy sleep, not bothering to move her legs from his lap but not allowing himself to touch her this time either.  In repose, she seemed almost…ethereal, and he'd struggled to squelch the snippets of poetry that popped automatically into his head.  Been awhile since that had happened, not since he'd been under Dru's attentive care immediately after the organ incident.  Unless, of course, he counted the verse he'd written special for the Slayer after Thanksgiving---

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_Bloody hate this holiday,_

_And fuck you, too._

---but counting that made his stomach inexplicably roil, so he shoved the memory aside in favor of remembering instead the blush of scarlet and gold across Buffy's cheeks as the reflection of the flames had danced upon them.

At some point, the Slayer's complaint about missing out on Christmas with her mom had jumped through Spike's head.  The holiday didn't mean so much to him anymore---not without having Dru around to lavish with presents---but it obviously did to her, and so the seed was planted, until an hour later, he was outside in the snow with one of Buffy's daggers, hacking away at the biggest, bushiest, greenest tree he thought he could get back inside before sunrise and getting mauled to death by the half-dozen or so birds' nests that had toppled from its branches as he did so.

She'd have her Christmas, and he could walk away thinking he'd done something to pay Joyce back for being a decent lady by giving her daughter a peachy Noel.  Yeah, that was how he was going to rationalize it.

Though he knew deep down he was doing it for Buffy.

*************

She'd made a decision by the time she stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom.  Saying she was calling a truce with Spike was one thing, but committing to it had been an entirely different ball of wax.  Buffy knew she'd been dragging her feet on trusting him---_really_ trusting him this time, because if he was going to kill her, he'd had ample opportunities and hadn't acted on a single one of them---but if this was going to work, she had to stop with the half-hearted attempts and give the vampire the credit he was due.

And she was _so_ glad Giles wasn't around to witness her saying such a thing.

She couldn't deny the facts any longer, though.  They were piling up like so many empty pizza boxes at an all-night research session, and pretending they weren't there was only giving her headaches.  Surely, it had to be easier to just give in to the impulse to give Spike the benefit of the doubt.  After all, the vampire had done his best to try and brighten the place up with a bit of holiday cheer.  Just for her.

Of course, he'd also left a huge mess for her to clean up, too.

Standing at the table, she grimaced as she surveyed the display of condiments and foodstuffs that he'd decided could be converted into homemade ornaments.  Dried penne to string on the dental floss he must've pulled from the supplies in the bathroom…boughs of pine that could be bent and shaped to drape over the doorways…Spike had even tossed in the last remaining bag of marshmallows, though what he thought she might do with them, she had no idea.  A sudden flash back to the fireplace, and she was moving to start sorting the chaos, anything to distract her from her traitorous thoughts and her even more traitorous body as the memory of the heat and the fluff and his touch returned with a vengeance.

Right, she thought, forcibly shifting her train of thinking as she held an orange in one hand and a roll of saran wrap in the other.  Time to start channelling my inner five-year-old.  Or my inner Xander.  Either way, it's ornament-making time.

*************

Over five hours later, a dishevelled Buffy sat on the floor amidst the garlands she'd created, a sense of surprising accomplishment swirling around inside her.  Not too shabby, she thought, as she spun the star she'd made out of tin foil and a bunch of sticks from the wood supply.  Mom would be proud.

Her wrist was sore from overuse, but splinting it when she came out of the bath had kept it immobile during most of her activity and she held no worries that she'd hurt it further.  Plus, by forcing her concentration elsewhere, she'd completely forgotten about the aches in her feet, and those were now feeling as good as new again, though one was tingling from being curled underneath her for just a few minutes too long.

Dropping the star to the side, Buffy stood and stretched, glorying in the pull and burn of her muscles as the movement heated her body.  Whatever his reasons, Spike had had an excellent idea with the Christmas decorations, and in her holiday spirit of goodwill toward a certain vampire who couldn't hurt her anyway, she was going to thank him for it, if he ever decided to wake up.  Hardly a peep had come from the loft since he'd vanished up the ladder, and if she hadn't heard the occasional squeak of a bedspring while she fought trying to get dental floss through the tiny holes in the pasta, she almost would've been worried that something had happened to him.

Almost.

Ornaments done meant there was only one thing left to tackle.  With a baleful frown, Buffy turned her head to look at the tree leaning against the sill, its branches obscuring most of the visible glass in the panes.  Now how in hell was she going to manage that?  It would need to be rooted in place, but somehow, she didn't think a treestand was part of the necessities Jenny and her ghostly cohorts had arranged in coming up with this little scenario.  Something else, then, that could contain water so the thing wouldn't die in two days and leave her with a cabin full of needles to sweep up, because somehow Buffy just knew Spike wouldn't care enough one way or the other to do it himself.

Crossing to the cupboards, the Slayer pulled out a pot, turning it over in her hands to examine its sides.  Its diameter was wider than the trunk, so if she used it, she'd have to find some way to bolt it into place.  Was it their only pan?  A quick glance told her no.  That was good, because not having anything to heat Spike's blood in would probably make him cranky as hell.  But still…what could she use that was strong enough to hold it reasonably upright?

She mulled over the dilemma for a few seconds before brightening.  Scanning the room, she spotted the weapons bag near the door, the short dagger Spike had obviously used to saw the tree down still tossed haphazardly across its partially open top.  Its blade was dull from its unorthodox usage, dried sap still clinging to its serrated edge; it would need a serious workover before it would be at its most functional again.

It wasn't the weapon she was after, though.  With a few hurried steps, Buffy was kneeling by the bag, digging around for the longer of the two knives she'd brought.  This one was thicker, with a blade a good foot and a half long, its heft more than enough to provide at least some balance for the tree while she secured its upper half to the curtain rail.  Between it and the pot, it would be more than workable as a stand, she figured.

She figured wrong.  

The first time Buffy tried lifting the tree to set it to rest in the water-filled pan, it slid between her fingers, its needled trunk scraping at her fingers, and dropped to hit the edge of the aluminum, spilling the water all over the floor and dousing her thick socks.

The second time, she tried from a lower angle, getting on her knees to pick up the tree closer to the base while she attempted to slide the refilled pot underneath it.  She didn't account for the extra weight at the top, however, and felt it start to tip forward just in time to shove the pan out of its path, thus avoiding another spillage.  It didn't save her from being buried beneath its branches, though, and got an irritable scrape across her jawline as she stood to push it back up.

What she needed was longer arms, Buffy decided as she held the tree upright.  One that could hold the top, while the other slid the pan in underneath.  Then maybe a third arm to keep it steady while she ran the knife through the pan to keep it in place.

OK.  Maybe this plan was a little on the sucky side after all.

Deciding to give it one more go, Buffy reached through the prickly branches to grasp the trunk with both hands, carefully spaced to allow herself the maximum coverage.  A twinge of pain shot through her arm from the force she was exerting on her injured wrist, but she ignored it as she focused on firming her grip.  Once she was confident it wasn't moving, Buffy looked to her side and stretched out her left leg, angling her foot to try and hook the pan she'd pushed away on the last attempt.  Inch by inch, she kept her pace slow, ready to compensate her balance the second she felt the fir start to tip again.

When the toe of her sock brushed against the base of the pan, a smile of satisfaction creased her face.  "About time," she said to no one in particular, and redirected her attention to not accidentally stepping into the water as she nudged it closer to the tree.

Finally, she thought in triumph, only to have her every nerve jump to attention when the edge of the pan caught on one of the not-quite-smooth-enough floorboards, grinding to a halt as the water came splashing up over the sides.  The jump diverted her focus just long enough for the tree to decide it wanted to fall over again, and before Buffy could stop it, it was slipping through her fingers, pressing against her chest as it began to topple forward.

Slayer reflexes weren't quite as fast as the arms that appeared from nowhere, encircling her shoulders to grasp onto the trunk and thrust it back against the wall again.  Buffy felt Spike's bare chest leaning into her as he helped her guide it back into a canted position, the power flexing through his visible muscles as he did so, and then it was gone, leaving her staring at the pine branches as she released her own grip.

"Stupid tree," she muttered.

"Stupid Slayer," Spike countered from behind her.  "What in bloody hell were you tryin' to do?"

"You're the one who brought the damn thing in," she said, whirling on her heel to face him.  She'd expected him to have moved back, and was visibly shocked to find Spike barely six inches away, head cocked in curiosity.  Sleep had done its number on his hair, tousling it into errant curls that made her fingers itch, and he wore only his black jeans, the angled jut of his pelvis visible above the waistband.  All of a sudden, she was too aware of her own disarray, and fought the urge to push back the tangle her hair had become in her tree tussle.

"You could've waited 'til I was awake to do something about it," Spike said evenly.  His eyes darted to the pan on the floor.  "Or maybe tried putting the water in _after_ you'd got the soddin' tree up."

"Oh."  Her gaze followed his to the mess she'd made.  She hadn't thought of that option.  Damn it.

"Don't know how you expected it to work anyway."  Buffy turned back to meet the mocking blue of his eyes.  "The tree's just goin' to fall over without something to make it stick."

"That's what that was for," she replied, and pointed to the dagger that rested on the floor just a few feet away.

A slow smile curled his lips as Spike chuckled.  "Gotta love a girl who knows what to do with a good poke," he said.

Her eyes widened at the innuendo, especially when she saw the familiar running of his tongue along the edges of his teeth.  _He's just baiting me.  He's trying to push my buttons.  _Frantically, she tried to latch on to some of her earlier resolve---_I can do this, I'm better than him_---and affected as genuine a smile as she could manage.

"I owe you another thank you, by the way," she said, and watched the surprise overtake his bravado.  _Ha.  Let's see who gets the last laugh here, blondie boy._  "For the Christmas stuff.  You didn't have to do that."

It took him a moment to respond.  "Don't have to do a lot of things," Spike said slowly.  The corners of his eyes crinkled as his gaze narrowed in scrutiny.  

She rushed onward, ignoring the hammering that had started inside her chest.  "Still, it was a good thing.  Like the reading last night to get my mind off my feet.  I know you don't have to, and you did it anyway, and I just wanted you to know…you know, thanks."

More silence while he just regarded her.  _Why isn't he talking?  This is me being all adult here.  I deserve a snark or a quip or something._

But when he spoke again, the words that came out were not what she expected.

"You liked the reading?"

His voice was a rumble in his chest, inexplicably raising goosebumps along her arms, and Buffy was grateful that she was wearing long sleeves so that he couldn't see them.  "It was nice," she said, lamely.  _Why is he standing so close?  Back up!  Back up!_  Except there was a tree behind her, and with him so close and the branches poking into her sides and her back, the only way to get past Spike meant she'd have to physically move him, and somehow, Buffy just _knew_ that touching the vampire at that exact moment in time would be monumentally bad.

"Nice is boring."  The tilt of his head was back.  "Never been pegged as boring before."

It was a challenge; she could see it glinting in the darkened blue of his eyes.  "That's not what I meant," she said before she could stop herself.

"It's what you said."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You know what.  Twist around what I say."  It was slipping---her resolve---her frustration rising to the point where it felt like hundreds of tiny flames were singeing the inside of her skin.  _And what is his hand doing?_

"There something else you'd prefer me to be twistin', pet?"  He'd reached up, a single finger stroking the graze she'd received from the tree when it fell on her, but instead of swatting him away, she shivered, unable to prevent the spontaneous response in her body from the almost gentle touch.

"Stop it," Buffy breathed.  Her gaze was diverted from his by the twitching in his jaw.

"Make me."

"Spike---."

She heard his muttered, "Fuck it," a split second before his lips crashed to hers.

To be continued in Chapter 13: Kiss Her Once for Me…


	13. Kiss Her Once for Me

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike has surprised Buffy with Christmas accoutrements, and she has attempted to erect the tree by herself, only to be surprisingly aided by Spike, aid that ends in a kiss…

----------

The moment he tasted her, Spike realized he must've dreamt about kissing Buffy at some point in his post-Hellmouth arrival unlife.

Not the lust-filled, pre-deathbite kiss that always played such a huge part in his early fantasies of killing her.

And not the magic-crisped kissfest inspired by Red's little spell gone wrong where the mouth-to-mouth was half-lost in a euphoric haze created by a Cleaver world in  which everything seemed eerily right.

And _definitely_ not the searing memory of pressing his lips to her fevered skin during their tenure at the cabin---had it really only been a matter of days since they'd arrived? 

No, this was sun-ripened fruit begging to be plucked, juices dripping at its first contact with hungry lips, and though the recollection it invoked was a mere shadow to the delight he was now savoring, it was too familiar not to have been imagined at some point.

He hadn't meant to kiss her.  When the crash of the tree had woken him from his nap, he'd been pissed as hell at the interruption, only pulling his jeans on as an afterthought when he realized he was still naked.  He'd watched Buffy struggle to stand beneath the weight of the pine, and felt the anger start to dissolve when the renewed throbbing in her wrist reverberated through his muscles.  Half-expecting her to give it up at that point, his lips had curled into a satisfied smile when she'd grabbed onto the trunk yet again, determined to make it work that time.

_That's my Slayer_, he'd thought before he could stop himself.

Helping her when it threatened to fall again had been an instinct he hadn't questioned until her unexpected gratitude had thrown him for a loop.  It forced him to consider the faint flush in her cheeks, the pounding of her pulse, the fact that she wasn't kicking him out of the personal space she held so bloody precious.  And none of the arguments he'd carefully stacked against her, and none of the reasons why this was so very, very wrong seemed to matter any more.

So, he threw caution to the wind, and he kissed the Slayer.

And, _ohhhh_, it was _good_.

That hand that had been stroking her jaw slid around to the back of her neck, strong fingers interlacing with her hair as he pulled her ever closer.  The first sudden impact had been met with a stiffening of her body, but now, only seconds after Spike's mouth had met Buffy's, her lips were parting, allowing his tongue to glide inside in a delectable sweep that made his blood roar for more, and the wonder that she was kissing him back only spurred him further, his free hand falling to her hip to hold her steady against his erection.

…_SlayerSlayerBuffySlayerBuffySlayerBuffyBuffyBuffy__…_

She was an inferno against his bare chest, slim fingers rising to brace herself as she kissed him back.  When he felt the tiniest of scratches of her pinky's nail across his skin, a shiver resonated through Spike's body, tightening his hold as the moan escaped his throat.

That was the moment it all changed.

Still hungry, still ravenous to devour her, Spike's mouth slowed to an alarming lethargy, each probe and each nibble a sinuous delight as he attempted to draw her out.  His grips relaxed, the hand on her hip sliding up beneath her blouse to settle at the small of her back, and he focused his attention on the sweet draw of her tongue, drowning in the sensations that continued to ripple through him.

----------

There was no first thought.

There was no second thought.

There was no thought at all, only the shock of being silenced by Spike's lips, and the surprise of feeling his fingers tangle at the base of her neck, and the subversion of her fears as she kissed him back. 

His mouth consumed hers, and though the question of how much he would demand from her lingered somewhere in the background of Buffy's mind, she tossed it aside with her ready acquiescence, lips parting to let him in, to swallow and explore him just as extensively as he was her.  The hard pressure of his hips against hers only made her craving for him burn brighter, and her heart leapt into her throat at the heady realization that the arousal straining at her through his jeans was all due to her.

…_moremoremoregodSpikemoremorepleaseSpikemore__…_

She was trembling in desire when she lifted her hands, glorying in the unyielding set of his chest, but when Spike whimpered at the accidental brush of her fingernail across his dark nipple, the world slid sideways, to a place she didn't know and a locus that endangered everything she'd ever believed.

Softer…with a gentility that hinted at fathoms of heart.

Slower…exploring unhurriedly, as if time itself didn't matter, as if all there was, was him and her…here and now.

And to top it all off, he seemed ever so determined to make Buffy react further.  When she felt his thumb begin caressing the line of her spine---no clothing in the way, just skin to skin, and the desire to make it much, much more---Buffy shuddered in response, hot and cold at the same time in alternating waves of confusion and desire.

This was Spike she was kissing.  This was _Spike_ who was making her feel this way.  But before she could let the dissident thoughts continue, her fingers began moving again, this time in a matching rhythm with his hypnotic strokes, shaping over the lines of his muscles as if she needed to etch them indelibly into her body's memory.

He groaned against her mouth, breaking the caress without leaving the sanctuary of her lips.  "God, luv," Spike murmured, but why he sounded breathless, she had no idea, "what've you done to me?"

It wasn't anger in his tone, but amazement, as if he couldn't believe for himself the kiss that had just transpired.  Maybe if he'd been snarky and gloating, she might've been able to tag it for what it was.  But he wasn't.  And it was that bewildered awe that brought her to her senses.

With the prickling of the branches sinking deeper into her skin, Buffy pulled back from the embrace, dropping her hands as she moved beyond the reach of his touch.  She looked up to meet his eyes, dark with whispers of desire she had an odd feeling were reflected in hers, and swallowed, trying to find her voice.

"I don't think when Mom was telling me to be nicer to you that that's what she meant," she said hoarsely.

She didn't mean it derogatively; if anything, it was supposed to be a joke to lighten the heavy mood that had settled between them.  But as she watched, the softness that had relaxed the chiseled lines of his face dissipated, leaving behind the stark austerity of disbelief before it hardened into resentment.

"Didn't realize I was the newest charity case for the Summers clan," he said, taking a step back.  "Bad enough I have to play whipping vamp to Rupert's whim, but kowtowing to the Slayer's hormones 'cause she's got an itch to scratch and her thinkin' she's doin' me a favor?"  He shook his head, heading to the kitchen.  "No thanks."

She watched him, jaw agape.  "What are you talking about?" she exploded, following after to grab his arm.

Snarling, Spike yanked himself away, their twin cries of pain echoing throughout the cabin when Buffy grabbed her sore wrist and he grabbed his head.  "Sod off, Slayer," he growled.  "It may hurt like hell, but push me, and I'll push back, mark my words."

"Are you going to tell me what that was all about back there?" she demanded.

"If you don't know, it's no wonder Soldier Boy did a walkabout," he shot back. 

His words stung, but they only served to steel Buffy's resolve.  She wasn't thrilled that the kiss had happened in the first place---as amazing as it had seemed in the moment---but it was at least explainable by the events of the past couple days.  "You didn't seem to be short on the enjoying of it," she said through gritted teeth.  "Because that sure as hell isn't a stake in your pocket, now is it?"

Blue eyes flashed in growing anger as he put the table with its heaped ornaments between them.  "This where you start demanding your chastity belt back?" he said.  "Hate to break it to you, Slayer, but you've been wanting that little taste of Spike since we took this shacking up gig.  More than that, even, I'd wager."

"You're a pig, Spike."

"You say that like you forgot for a mo."

"Like that's even possible, with you in my face and under my feet all the time."

"Don't forget in your bed, pet.  After all, you were the one who asked me there."

"This is not about _me_!"

"Isn't it?"  An angry hand swept over the array of Christmas finery she'd created.  "If you think I give a bloody fuck for any of this claptrap, you're more off your box than Dru ever was."

"Oh, no, you don't get to play that game."  A few steps, and the table was no longer an obstacle between them, with Buffy standing in full-fledged Summers anger before an unwavering Spike.  "_You _did that.  I didn't ask for any of it, not the deck the halls show, not for you to go all Paul Bunyan.  And I most certainly did _not_ ask for you to kiss me."

"Seemed to me like you were beggin' for it.  Practically fallin' at my feet, you were."

"That was the stupid tree's fault!"

An eyebrow quirked.  "The tree made you want me?"

"I don't---gah!"  Whirling on her heel, Buffy began to storm away, only to turn back almost right away and jab her finger into his chest.  "Why do you have to always go and ruin everything, Spike?  Every time I get my life in order, _you_ manage to come through it like a huge, bleached wrecking ball, smash it all to bits, and then leave me to pick up the pieces."

She'd expected him to retreat at her physical assault, as innocuous as it was.  Instead, he stood firm, glaring down at her in righteous anger, tiny glints of amber flickering in his irises.  "There's nothing in order 'bout you and me stuck here together, Slayer.  Sooner you realize that, the happier you'll be."

"But there was."  It came out before she could stop it, tight and furious and so low she wondered if he even heard her.  "We're a team, remember?  You and me versus the First, or Second, or whatever the hell Jenny is, versus whoever's after that Holly person?  Is any of this ringing a bell in that thick skull of yours?  Or has your chip permanently shorted out any thinking capacity you might actually have left?"

"You made those rules.  Not me."

"Wrong answer, Spike.  _You_ made this bed.  The second you saved me.  And _now_ you've got a problem with it?  Guess what.  Too bad."

She didn't wait to see what response he had to her words, her anger finally getting the better of her and driving her away from his space and into the refuge of the bedroom.  The door shook in its frame from the force with which she slammed it, and she leaned heavily against its inner sanctum, sliding down its length to sit on the floor, exhausted.

Why was she surprised at his behavior?  Why did she think _for one second_ that Spike wouldn't turn on her and lash out like that?  Why did she _care_?

Because during the space of that kiss…that toe-curling, hair-raising-on-the-back-of-her-neck, stupendous kiss…she'd forgotten about all the extraneous crap that seemed to clutter her mind when he wasn't in her direct line of sight.  And he had, too.  Or he seemed to.  He'd sounded just as shocked and surprised and amazed at what had been happening between them as she was.  The possibility that she could've been taken in by those words, by the sincerity in his voice…_hurt_.

She blinked back the sudden sting of hot tears.  _Damn you, Spike.  This doesn't have to be that hard._

----------

It had been a long day, and it was promising to be an even longer night.  With a fatigued sigh, Giles tossed his glasses onto the flattened scroll on the desk, ignoring the faint click of the door as it opened and closed behind him. 

"You're missing tea," Maria said.

He stiffened in his chair, his eyes returning automatically to the text before him.  "I have work to do," he replied.  When the decision to say to hell with the masquerade settled almost a split second later, he added, "As do you, if I'm not mistaken."

Soft footsteps echoed through the formal library in which he was working, and he glanced up when she took the seat opposite the desk.  As the previous night when he'd dined with her, her appearance was immaculate---a trim blouse tucked conservatively into wool trousers, gray hair carefully coiffed into that pixie cut---and he hurriedly tore his gaze away, refusing to give his captor any more attention than was absolutely necessary.

"This doesn't have to be that difficult," she said softly.  "I know you disapprove of my methods, but really, this obstinacy regarding my company is rather childish, don't you think?"

"I wasn't aware you required me for my conversation skills," Giles said, and scribbled down another note on his pad. 

The room was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.  Though the words on the scroll bled before him, Giles continued his pretense of translating it, silently cursing his guest for disrupting his concentration.  It wouldn't do to appear rattled before her---and why he was, he wasn't particularly sure---but he would be damned if he'd give her the satisfaction in knowing she could get to him.

"Your Slayer isn't at any of the hospitals."

The declaration made him freeze, and Giles tipped his head to look at her.  He had no choice but to ask.  "And the morgues?"

Maria shook her head.  "Police reports indicate finding the car at the crash site, but it was abandoned.  They did, however, find blood in the passenger's seat."

Buffy's seat… "What else did they find?"  He leaned forward, blue eyes flaring.  "Did they conduct a search of the area?"

"The storm prevented any immediate action.  By the time the weather was cooperating, there was no indication of any disturbances around the car at all.  No footsteps, nothing that couldn't be explained by the accident."

The possibilities pitched through Giles' mind, faster and faster as each potential scenario repeated in infinite time until the strength in his shoulders seemed to flag.  "But they haven't found a body," he said, grasping at straws.  "There's no reason to think that she didn't make it to safety and just isn't waiting out the bad weather."

"No, there's not."  He flinched when she reached forward and patted his hand.  "I am sorry, Mr. Giles.  If I had known you had a passenger in the car…"

Her use of the singular conjured an image of Spike, and the chance of a different likelihood began to form inside his awareness.  No bodies…no mention of another victim in the accident…was it even possible that the vampire would _do_ such a thing?

"What about the items in the boot of the car?" he asked carefully.  "Were those gone as well?"

She frowned.  "I don't know," Maria admitted.  "I don't remember seeing any note of them in the police reports when I read them over.  Was there anything special about them that I should be aware of?"

If only you knew, he thought.  There had been blood in the trunk, as well as weapons.  Not exactly items that would go unmentioned in the event of an odd accident that was missing any sign of a victim or driver, not when non-Hellmouth police would most likely be looking for any clues they could possibly find in order to solve the mystery.  Leaning back in his seat, Giles mulled over the connotations of such evidence, keeping his face as blank as possible.

"I need to call Mrs. Summers," he said evenly, ignoring Maria's question.  "She'll be worried, and I need to reassure her that her daughter is all right."

There was a pause.  "What will you say to her?"

Blue eyes met black ones.  "That the dreadful weather is forcing me to stay in at the lodge through the holidays, and that Buffy is perfectly fine."  Oh, he was so good at lying.  Would Maria be able to tell?

Apparently not.  "Do you think it's…fair to mislead her so?"

It took all his control not to laugh in her face.  "For now," Giles said simply.  "She wasn't aware of Buffy's calling for years.  Stalling her for a couple weeks will be child's play."

Maria nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response.  Her eyes fell to the scroll, and he saw her scan the unfamiliar text with interest.  "I assume your reluctance to join us for tea is due to a breakthrough in the translation," she said, changing the subject.

"No breakthrough," he admitted.  "But it will come."

She rose to her feet, and smiled.  "Of course it will.  That's why I have you here.  Your skills with these particular types of scrolls are legendary, Mr. Giles."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"And neither will starving yourself."  She strolled toward the door, only glancing back once her hand was on the knob.  "I'll have dinner sent in to you tonight, but this will be the last time I allow you to dine alone.  I expect a certain civility in my house, and I will not have you disrupting that with your childish displays.  Are we understood?"

He refused to respond, his gaze level as she waited.  When she finally sighed and left the room, he collapsed back into his chair, his mind already well at work on his next problem.  There would be no guarantees that his phone call to Joyce would not be monitored; he would have to be extra careful about relaying his message to her if he didn't wish to be caught out.

To be continued in Chapter 14: Mistletoe and Holly…


	14. Mistletoe and Holly

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Giles is attempting to both find out what happened to Buffy and go along with Maria's needs, while Buffy and Spike have shared a tumultuous kiss that ended with her storming off into the bedroom by herself…

-----

The growling of her traitorous stomach was what finally drove Buffy to press her ear to the door.  For too many hours, she'd waited it out inside the bedroom, ready to continue the fight with Spike if he chose to enter, vaguely disappointed when the door remained shut.  There had been indistinguishable crashes and muffled swearing on the other side of it throughout the course of the evening, but about half an hour earlier, she'd heard the front door slam shut, trumpeting Spike's exit for any and all to hear.  Now, with the hour so near to midnight, she knew she had to eat something soon or deflate from hunger, and with the vampire out on some unknown call of nature, the present was as good a time as any.

Pulling the door open a tiny crack, Buffy peered into the front room, frowning at the veiled darkness it presented.  Only the flickering orange shadows cast by the fireplace allowed her to see anything at all, and she opened the door wider in order to better scan the room's interior.

What she saw made her jaw drop.

Sometime in the past six or so hours, and for some reason probably known only to the vamp and God himself, Spike had managed to not only rig the tree into a vertical position before the window, but he'd also taken it upon himself to adorn it with the decorations Buffy had made.  Garlands of red laced through the branches like flowing veins, while clove-studded oranges hung from its tips, heavy and treacherous but seemingly secured in place.  The swathes of green she'd lashed together rested across many of the available surfaces of the room---along the mantle, around the window and door frames---and Spike had even grown his own creative bone to add a flourish of berry sprays to the many otherwise bare fronds.

The only thing missing was the star she'd made, but Buffy spotted it resting on the table, just waiting to find its home atop the tree.  Though still in the shape it was intended, the foil that had once been smooth was now wildly creased, as if at one point it had been balled up into a tiny, compact wad and then flattened out again.  One of its points seemed to droop a bit, and, crossing to the table to pick it up, Buffy's fingers played with straightening it out.

She had no idea why he'd done it.  He'd been just as pissed as she when she made her exit, and this bordered on the realm of an apology, which Spike just didn't do in her experience.  Of course, Spike also didn't go about saving his mortal enemy until now, either, she rationalized, and set the star back down thoughtfully.

-----

She was curled up on the couch in front of the tree, a plate bereft of all but crumbs on the floor in front of her, watching the dwindling fire dance and crackle in the hearth, when the door was pushed open and Spike stepped in.  His head was bent, his leather-clad shoulders white and wet from fallen snow, and he stopped on the threshold to bang his boots against the jamb.  It was a full fifteen seconds of cold wind blowing into the cabin before he looked up and noticed her, and he hesitated to fully enter as their eyes met.

"It's snowing again," Buffy observed, as casually as she could muster.

He looked back at that, and started, as if realizing for the first time that the door was still open.  "Like a bugger," he agreed, closing it.  Warily, Spike slid off his coat, shaking it free of the rest of the clinging snow.  "Thought I'd check out the area.  Make sure we didn't have any unwelcome visitors."

"It's OK, Spike.  You don't have to check in with me."  She smiled.  "It's not like either one of us can get very far anyway."

His head tilted in curiosity at her small joke.  "Right," he said quietly.  He lifted his chin toward the dying fire.  "You plannin' on letting that go out or something?  It's a spot easier to keep a fire goin' instead of havin' to start with one from scratch again."

"I guess I hadn't realized it was so low.  I was just…I must've lost track of the time or something."  It was an uneasy truce that seemed to have been called between them, one neither of them seemed completely comfortable with but one Buffy was afraid to rock for fear of the tension of their fight returning.  She also noticed that neither one of them was bringing up the obvious topics of conversation---not the kiss, not the decorations---but knew that at least one of those would have to be addressed some time before they turned in for the night.

"You've got the survival instincts of a gnat, Slayer," he said as he crossed to the fireplace.

Her mouth was open with a sharp retort at his gibe before the understanding that he was teasing her back sank in.  "I think I've managed to do OK so far," she replied with a grin.

She was rewarded with another of those curious tilts when he glanced back at her over his shoulder.  For a long second, Spike gazed at her through hooded lashes before turning back to stab at the flames with the poker.  "Didn't know your meaning of OK included hurtin' your wrist again," he commented.

Looking down at the joint in question, Buffy frowned as she attempted to flex it.  It was sore, and more than a little achy from her adventures with the tree, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as it had before.  "It's fine," she argued. 

"It's not.  I can feel it pounding all the way over here."

"It's just a little uncomfortable.  It's not like I broke it again or anything."

"If you'd kept up with the pine calisthenics much longer, you would've."

So it was going to be the decorations that got discussed.  Funny how she was actually a little disappointed that he'd picked the safer option.

"You didn't seem to come off on the wrong side of getting it up," Buffy said. 

His shoulders tensed beneath his tee, but his gaze remained on the fire.  "Yeah, well, knew you wouldn't stop whingeing until it was," Spike said.  His tone was surprisingly neutral.  "Bad enough bein' stuck here with you.  Don't need to have you nattering on like an incredibly annoying bee in my ear just 'cause you didn't get your soddin' Christmas tree along with it."

"It's _our_ Christmas tree."

That made him look up.  "What?" he said, dark brows knit in consternation.

"You heard me.  You've done most of the work with it, you know.  Bringing it in, getting it up, putting the decorations on it.  Sounds like a full opportunity treeshare to me."

Silence.  His eyes were unreadable, shadowed from the lack of light, and Buffy wished there was better illumination in the cabin so that she could more easily see what he was thinking. 

"I don't want it," he finally said.  "Didn't ask for it, don't want anything to do with it.  It's more bother than it's worth, and I know you think I'm a dab hand at cocking things up, but this thing…this time, it's not goin' to be me."

Her voice was a whisper when she spoke.  "Are we still talking about the tree?"

When he didn't reply, choosing instead to turn back and stoke the fire, Buffy knew that was the end of the discussion for Spike.  He was willing to wave the white flag for the purposes of his own sanity for the next ten days, but more than that was too much work for him.  It made sense, actually, because really, she didn't want the kiss they'd shared going any further either.  They didn't actually _like_ each other, plus there was the whole monster of a fact that Spike didn't even have a soul.

Not that she could tell that, half the time.  Not when he pulled stunts like the decorating.

"You forgot to put the star on," she said when the silence began to swell into discomfort.

"Didn't forget."  With the fire now raging, Spike stood and crossed to the kitchen, going to the refrigerator to pull out a blood bag.  "Figured you'd want to do the honors, is all."

"Oh.  Thanks."

It was clear he wasn't going to speak to her unless he had to, and it made Buffy increasingly uncomfortable to just sit there listening to him heat up his blood.  Taking her empty plate, she went and put it in the sink, rinsing it off before turning to face the table.  The star still sat at its center, and she picked it up, casting Spike one last look before walking back to stand in front of the tree.

No way was she going to be able to put it up without some vertical assistance, so, setting the ornament down on the couch, Buffy went and retrieved one of the chairs, ignoring the sidelong glances Spike was shooting in her direction.  Placing it next to the tree, she climbed up with the star in tow and situated it on the top.

"There," she announced.  She waited until he had turned to look at her.  "Now, it's officially a Christmas tree."

"It's crooked," Spike said.

Buffy cocked her head to further examine the angle.  "It looks fine to me."

"That's 'cause you're too close to it."  With long strides, he was at her side in seconds, his hand on hers as he tugged her off the chair and away from the tree.  Taking her by the shoulders, he turned Buffy back to face the window.  "Now look at it."

Spike was right.  What had seemed perfectly fine before, now could be seen as slightly askew, tilting just enough to mar the beauty of the work that had been done.  She folded her arms across her chest, mildly annoyed that he'd seen it and not she.

"I like it that way," she said stubbornly.

"No, you don't," he replied, not without a touch of humor.  He took her place on the chair and fidgeted with the foil so that it aligned perfectly perpendicular with the ceiling.  "How's that?"

She didn't want to reply, but… "It's better," Buffy said.  It was a begrudging admission, and she knew even as it came out that it made her sound like a petulant child.

Spike shook his head as he climbed down.  "You'd cut your nose off just to spite me, wouldn't you, Slayer?" he said dryly, going back to his mug of blood cooling on the counter.  "One of these days, you might find it interesting to try admitting you're wrong about something or other.  Could be a liberating experience for you."

Unseen by him, Buffy rolled her eyes as she plopped back down on the couch.  "Like you're one to talk," she muttered.

She pretended to ignore his footsteps as they clomped across the room, and, when he came to a stop in front of her, she deliberately kept her attention concentrated on the loose threads that seemed to be exploding from her socks.  She would've even started whistling to continue the charade of not acknowledging his presence if he hadn't suddenly dropped to a crouch and put himself directly in her line of sight.

"What is it you're tryin' to get me to say, Slayer?" he asked.  His voice was low and dangerous, the muscles in his jaw twitching from the control he was exerting over them.  "Because it seems to me, we've both done enough talkin' for the day.  I don't particularly fancy goin' another round of he said she said, and I don't particularly fancy gettin' blindsided again by that tongue of yours, so unless there's something itching you so badly you just have to spit it out now, I suggest you leave me the hell alone."

"Is that what you really want?" she shot back.  "Because it doesn't look like it from where I'm sitting."

"Is _what_ what I really want?"

"The Garbo act."

"'Course it is.  Why wouldn't it be?"

"Then tell me why you did all this.  Why go to the bother of the tree and decorating at all if you didn't want any attention from it?"

"Already told you," Spike said, and started to rise, only to be stopped by Buffy's iron grip around his forearm.

"I want the real reason," she said.

His lids dropped as he looked down at her hold on him, and Spike's warning from earlier about pushing back began to peal inside Buffy's head.  "You don't want to be doin' that," he said softly.

"Or what?" she challenged.

Lashes lifted to reveal the sparkling blue.  "Or you just might find yourself gettin' an earful of truth that would send you screaming for the hills, pet."

"You think I can't handle a little bit of honesty?"

Spike's bark of laughter cut through the cabin.  "Tell me when the last time you found yourself over the moon at hearing _anything_ I had to say to you," he said.  "Face it.  You prefer your little bubble of denial because it makes life easier for you.  Black, white, and no pesky little shades of grey in between to muddy the waters.  Not that there's anything wrong with the tried and true black-and-white.  Fuck knows I've had my own runaround with keeping the line straight."  He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that made her fingers itch to do more than just hold his arm.  "Thing is…you just can't stand having someone turn the coin over on you, Slayer.  You see white when something's blacker than midnight, and it absolutely eats you up fightin' what's right before your eyes.  So, it might be in your best interest to reconsider that request of yours.  You ask for truth, you better be prepared to hear it."

She so wanted to lash out at him, to slam her fist into his beautiful mouth and shut him the hell up.  But she'd asked for this, and better yet, she knew how to turn the tables on his all-knowing smugness.

"That's big talk coming from someone who didn't want to hear what I had to say the last time we were in this room together," Buffy said evenly.  She forced herself to uncurl her fingers from his arm, waiting for him to back away.

He didn't.

"I heard you," Spike said, and his nostrils flared in anger.  "I heard you call me a charity case."

"No, you heard me make a joke about the lecture Mom gave me before I agreed to vampsit you for Giles.  For some reason, she seems to think that I wasn't trying to understand what you've been going through, that maybe I owed you a little more respect for not buckling after everything that happened.  Not once did I say I felt sorry for you, Spike.  Hell, if there's anyone I know who knows how to bounce back, it's you.  And if you dare tell anyone that I admitted that, I'll personally pull your heart out through your nose.  With tweezers."

Her cheeks were flushed, her heart was pounding, but Buffy couldn't tear her eyes away from the stormy confusion battling behind his.  It was everything she'd been thinking about in the bedroom, stuff she'd been trying to tell him during their previous fight, and the fact that she'd actually managed to say it out loud astounded her.  It dawned on her that this was something she'd been meaning to give to him, this declaration of respect, that she'd wanted him to know that his actions over the past few days hadn't gone unnoticed.  Whether it meant anything to him to hear it, though, was another matter.

"I wanted to see you smile again," he said quietly.

In the way of non sequiturs, it took first prize.  "What?"

Spike sighed, looking up and anywhere but into her eyes.  "You asked why all the doodads and frippery.  I thought…if I gave it to you…well, you're a sight more pleasant to be around when you're happy, Slayer.  So, it was entirely selfish motivation on my part to try and get you to smiling again."

"And the kiss?"

That brought his attention back.  "What about it?"

"What was that all about?"

Silence.

More silence.

Even more pounding, aching, horrible silence.

If someone didn't speak soon, Buffy was going to scream.

"It was just a kiss," Spike finally mumbled.  "Nothin' special---."

"Liar," she said before she could stop herself.

He stared at her in disbelief, eyes narrowing as he tried to sort through her response in his head.  She had no idea what he was going to do.  She had no idea what _she _was doing, for that matter.  Her head and her mouth seemed to be working on opposite teams at the moment, and her mouth---with the unwanted cheerleading support of every nerve ending in Buffy's body that remembered what it had felt like to be touched by Spike, to be _kissed_ by Spike, and was pulling out all its sis-boom-bah stops----was winning.

_You couldn't just let this go?_ she scolded herself.  Spike had given her the perfect out for forgetting all about the incident, and she'd taken it from him and shredded it into itty bitty I'm-not-ready-to-sweep-this-one-under-the-rug pieces.  Not only that, she'd thrown it back into his face with all the grace of a childhood dare.

And if there was _anything_ she knew about Spike, it was that he could never resist a dare.

And, oh god, she really was the Queen of Incredibly Wrong and Bad Ideas, because she was about to make it even worse.

"We were _both_ there, Spike.  You can try telling yourself that it wasn't anything, but…I _saw_ you.  I _heard_ you.  And…"  She took a deep breath.  "…it scared the shit out of me, because I don't understand what the hell's going on.  What it is that's happening…with…us.  And I want you to tell me what it is, once and for all."

Slowly, Spike shook his head.  The skepticism of his aspect faded, to be replaced with the softer calculation she more closely associated with him, and Buffy found herself holding her breath as she waited. 

"You never cease to surprise me, Summers," he murmured.  He stood and began pacing in front of the couch.  "See, I had you pegged for bein' the emotionally stunted type, with delusions of livin' up to Romeo and bloody Juliet as the height of your precious little lovelife."  When her jaw dropped to snap at him, he pointed at her in reproval.  "No sense in denying it.  I was there for you and Peaches, remember?  And I was there for the 'we can just be friends' bullshit."

"I should've known you'd---."

"Let me finish.  You asked for my piece, so now you're goin' to get it."  Stopping, Spike looked down at her with a tilt of his head, eyes dark and sparkling.  "The thing of it is…you've got this daft notion that I actually _do _know what's happening.  But guess what.  The both of us are flying blind here, and it sure as fuck doesn't make me happy because this…_thing_ between us rates the top prize for unnatural selection in my book.  Told you, like my evil, evil, and my do-gooders as dinner.  Wondering how kissing you can taste like sunshine was never meant to be on the menu."

In a way, his words were almost a relief.  No wonder he was running scared.  Spike had absolutely no clue as to why things were shifting like quicksand beneath their feet, and yet he was getting caught up in the whirlwind of how astonishing it felt just as much as Buffy was.  Knowing this was one more thing that they shared, that she wasn't alone in questioning what was going on inside her head, unexpectedly lifted an unseen weight from her shoulders.

"So what do we do?" she asked.

"Hell if I know," he muttered, and began pacing around the room again.

"I'm not looking for any kind of relationship with you, Spike."

He snorted.  "Like I am?"

"I mean, yeah, we're kind of on the same team for awhile here, and that's OK.  I'm OK with that.  But more…"  She was trying to visually follow his path, and finally sighed in exasperation.  "Will you just stop for a second?"

The look he shot her was electric, but his feet never ceased, his steps deliberately heavier as he continued to march around the perimeter of the room.

Buffy jumped up and positioned herself in his path, forcing him to curtail his route.  When he tried to step around her, she matched his movement and folded her arms across her chest to show him she could keep it up all night if he wanted.

"What?" Spike demanded.

"We have to figure this out, because it keeps happening and---."

"Only kissed you the once, pet."  His eyes danced as they raked over her, his tongue curling against his top teeth.  "Unless you've been havin' some dreams you're not sharin' with the class here."

"It's not just the kiss," Buffy replied.  "There was the thing with the marshmallows, and that first morning on the couch, and---."

"Thought you said you'd been thinking of Angel," he accused, his amusement fading as his eyes narrowed in speculation.

She flushed as the realization that she'd stepped right into that one slammed into her brain, and Buffy pursed her lips tightly together, unwilling to admit to the fib she'd fabricated for the convenience of getting him off her. 

It didn't matter, though.  Spike, as par for the course, saw right through her lie.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, and back was the predator who'd just found a fresh trail to follow.  "Looks like I'm not the only one around here whose pants are on fire, then."

His innuendo slithered over and around Buffy's body, latching hold somewhere in the pit of her stomach and sending her careening beyond the realm of any control she'd had left in the situation.  It no longer seemed important to get answers to the questions that had been nagging her, not when there was no way Spike was going to stop turning the tables at every opportunity, and not when she had to fight the urge not to leap over that metaphorical table and pick up on their kiss exactly where they'd left off.  She'd given him too much power already; it was time to tuck her tail and run while she still could.

"Never mind," Buffy snapped with more conviction than she felt.  Slowly, she began to back away.  "This was just a world of wrong all over the place.  Forget I said anything."

Spike's hand shot out and grabbed her arm, stopping her in a mimicry of the standstill she'd forced on him just moments earlier.  "Don't think so, pet," he said.  Firmly, he began dragging her toward the front door.  "You started this.  Think we're bloody well goin' to finish it, one way or another."

She didn't struggle against him, instead letting him lead her to the door he yanked open.  A blast of cold wind raised a bevy of goosebumps along her skin, and she shivered as Spike deliberately placed her against the jamb, half inside, half out.

"I guess you changed your song on me going Shoeless Joe in the winter wonderland," she said wryly.

Spike ignored her comment and jerked his head upward.  "Take a gander, Buffy."

Glancing at the overhead lintel, she said, "It's green."

"It's mistletoe."

Her attention snapped back to his face.  "You put up _mistletoe_?"

"Call me sentimental."

"More like presumptuous."  She started to step back into the cabin, but his arm came up to block her path, his hand on the jamb behind her.  "I'm cold, Spike," Buffy complained.  She kept her eyes fixed on the dim interior of the cabin. "And I'm tired.  And I'm starting to regret bringing all this up, so just let me go back inside, all right?  Because breaking your arm to get it out of my way when we have no idea what kind of fight we've got heading in our direction is probably not the smartest thing for me to be doing right now."

"Here's the plan, Slayer.  One time deal.  And when it's all over, if you want, you can blame it on the mistletoe."

"Blame what?"

"This."

She could've stopped him.  Part of Buffy knew exactly what was going to happen the second he identified what they were standing beneath.  Part of Buffy could see what was glinting in that blue, the determination and the dare and the desire, and she could see the way his gaze remained on her, unwavering in its assessment, seeing through her---_into_ her---just as it always did.  She could've stopped him at any point.

Most of Buffy really didn't want to.

His hand came up to tip her face back toward his, and his other joined the first in cupping her jaw as his mouth lowered to hers.  Every movement was deliberate, every action measured.  When Spike's lips met hers, it was very much as if the past half-dozen hours had never occurred, the purposeful glide of his mouth across hers as he resumed the exploration he'd already started banishing the cantankerous voice that kept nagging in the back of Buffy's brain.  All her questions, and all her doubts, and each and every single one of the arguments that had proliferated in her consciousness since their earlier exchange were settled by the firm power of his mouth, by the fingers caressing her jawline both deadly and tender.

This made sense.  In that moment, without any more reservations about what she was doing, Buffy knew that being with Spike made sense.

As she responded to the desire he barely restrained, Buffy lifted her hands to brace herself against his chest.  The moment they made contact with the chilled fabric of his shirt, she felt him start, as if the return of her touch was more than he'd expected, and he pulled far enough away to look down into her upturned face.

"It's not because of the mistletoe," she said softly.

"What _is_ it because of then?" he asked, and though Buffy understood that he hated the weakness it betrayed in him, the entreaty that coated his words exposed his need to know more so than the unfathomable blue of his gaze.

"I don't know."  It was the truth, slipping past her lips before she could stop it, but before he could steal away from her embrace to berate her ignorance yet again, she let her arms glide around his back to hold him tighter as she added, "I really don't care."

Spike's silent concurrence with her acceptance of their new situation was announced by the return of his lips to hers, his kiss stronger and more demanding as he took what she so willingly offered.  The biting wind swirled around her ankles, but Buffy was oblivious to the cold, every sensation warmed by the certainty of their rising desire.  She could feel his erection pressing into her hip through the confines of his jeans, long and hard and oh so ready to be free, and wondered erratically if he'd think she was even easier than he must already if she reached down to touch him.

Somewhere in the midst of their kissing, she became aware of a muffled cough, as if someone was repeatedly clearing his throat, but it wasn't until Spike pulled away from her mouth, his arms wrapping protectively around her as his body bent automatically to shield her from the sound, that she looked in the noise's direction.

At the bottom of the porch's stair stood a man, dark hair blown askew by the wind, snowflakes collecting in the unruly curls.  Bright eyes glinted in perpetual amusement as he looked up at them, and he released his hold on the handle of the covered cart that trailed behind him to stuff his hands deep into his coat's pockets.

"I hate to be the one to break up such a fair display," he said good-humoredly.  There was a lilt to his voice that she couldn't quite place, but it was obvious that whoever he was, he wasn't local.  "After all, a good kiss can be just what a fella needs.  Of course, trying to explain that to the ladies can give you a headache, but---."

"I know you," Spike interrupted.  His head tilted as he stepped away from the door.  "Bit of a jaunt for you from LA, isn't it?"

"I could say the same for you," the man replied.  There was no mistaking the slide of his appreciative eyes over Buffy.  "Though I must say, you're keeping much better company these days."

"You two know each other?" she demanded, stepping out from behind Spike.  She rubbed at her arms as her returning awareness of the chill bit into her flesh.

The stranger shrugged.  "Not really," he said.  "Just a little torture between not-quite friends, right, Spike?"  He grinned, and in spite of her wariness regarding this new development, Buffy couldn't help but warm to the genuineness of his reaction.  "The name's Doyle, and I guess I'll be settling up a few bets when I get back.  I never figured William the Bloody and the infamous Buffy Summers would be in this one together."

It was his choice of words that made her pause.  "You're part of what Jenny was talking about," she said slowly.

Spike scoffed.  "Not possible," he said.  "She was a ghost.  I just saw this bloke breathing and heartbeating around Los Angeles not three months ago.  And if he's not all body-having right now, I'll eat my jacket."

"Hope you like the leather," the man said with a grin.  "Because that would be magic you'd be feeling, not me." 

A small whimper from inside the covered cart diverted his attention, and as Buffy watched, Doyle stepped back to peer through the small window cut out of its side.  It was an odd construction, like a child's red wagon covered with a big square box to create a makeshift go-cart.  A tiny door seemed the only way inside it, and it was through that the sound was emanating.

"Awful noisy cargo you've got there," Spike commented with a frown.

"Yeah," Doyle agreed.  "She's a handful.  Well, if I could lay a hand on her, that is."  He nodded toward Buffy.  "I don't suppose you could come down here and help me out, would you?  The magic that makes me solid doesn't exactly convince your little guest here of the same."

Curiosity drove Buffy forward, and though the cold was starting to make her shiver, she held herself firm as she pulled open the door of the cart.  She was immediately greeted by a pair of wide brown eyes, which were nearly hidden beneath a multi-colored cap, and when the owner of the eyes emerged fully, the Slayer found herself staring at a small child bundled from head to toe against the winter elements.

"Hello," she said slowly.

"Hello," the little girl repeated after her.

She certainly looked human, and before Buffy could stop herself… "Do you have a name?"

Huge eyes darted past the Slayer to look at Doyle for approval.  When he nodded, they returned to gaze unblinkingly at Buffy.  "Yes," she said.

A long silence ensued where the only sound was the whine of the wind around them.  It was a full thirty seconds before the Slayer realized that was the only response she was going to get from the child without further clarification.  "I'm Buffy," she said, and pointed to the porch.  "And that's Spike."

She nodded.  "That's what Doyle said."

"What should we call you?"

A sudden sneeze punctuated the air, the girl's nose wrinkling as she sniffed against the cold.  "Holly," she said, and sneezed again.

To be continued in Chapter 15: What Child Is This?...


	15. What Child Is This?

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike have shared another kiss under the mistletoe, leaving both of them more than a little anxious for more though not sure where exactly they're going, only to be interrupted when Doyle showed up with Holly in tow…

-----

As soon as he saw Buffy start to bend over to scoop the child into her arms, Spike's hand shot out to curl around her bicep.  "What do you think you're doin'?" he asked, incredulous.

A single brow lifted.  "I'm taking her inside.  You might not mind being a vampsicle, but she's just a little girl and it's freezing out here."

"Funny, but I never pegged you for bein' Mummie Dearest, Slayer."

The look she shot him was venomous as she yanked herself free.  "C'mon, Holly," Buffy said to the child, deliberately affecting an ultra-sweet tone in order to counteract Spike's antagonism.  "It's much comfier inside.  We've even got marshmallows!"

He strode alongside her as she carried Holly back to the cabin.  "Did you ever consider that takin' her in is _exactly_ what they want you to do?" Spike asked.

"Gee, you mean all these visits from dead people _weren't_ about protecting her?" she said sarcastically.  "Did I miss a memo or something?"

"I'm just sayin', I don't seem to recall us reaching any sort of like mind about what we were goin' to do about…"  He waggled his fingers at Holly.  "…_that_."

She stopped on the bottom stair.  "Have you actually looked at her?  _That _is a little girl, Spike.  She's defenseless, which is a state I'd think you'd be _more_ than familiar with, and I am not about to let her die from pneumonia because you've all of a sudden decided two's company.  So, if you're suggesting I just leave her out here, you can just forget about coming in yourself."

"Like you could keep me out."

"Don't push me, Spike."

Before the vampire could open his mouth to respond, Holly lifted her head from where it had rested on Buffy's shoulder and leveled a tired gaze at him.  "Yeah, don't push her, Spike," she parroted.

He was left gaping on the stairs as the two females disappeared into the house.  "Looks like the estrogen level just tipped in their favor," came the casual comment from behind him.  "Tough luck."

Whirling on his heel, Spike jabbed an angry finger at Doyle as he closed the gap between them.  "This is your bloody fault!" he shouted.  "Things were just starting to get interesting between me and the Slayer, and you had to go and bollocks it up by arriving with the anklebiter.  Why the hell aren't you in LA, anyway?  Don't tell me Peaches' little holier than everyone else routine finally got old with you?  Or did that white horse of yours finally trip itself up and pitch you to the ground with the rest of us demons?"

"I can't say I blame you for being a tad upset," Doyle said.  He was completely unfazed by the outburst, which only served to boil Spike's blood even further.  "If I was in your boots, I'd be wondering how I'd be getting through the next ten days.  Babysitting's never been my cup of tea."  He grinned, so wide that Spike was overcome with the urge to smack it off his face, and then winked.  "Good thing tea's never been my drink of choice, then, right?"

"What're you blithering about?"

Doyle jerked his head toward the cart, stepping back to allow clearance to it.  "Holly wasn't my only cargo," he simply said.

With narrowed eyes, Spike stalked the few feet it took to reach the small door on the cart's side, pulling it from its hinges with an unnecessary force that sent splinters of wood flying in every direction.

"Easy, boy," Doyle said when a small chip went sailing past his head.  "Those little slivers mean dust for you, remember?"

Spike ignored him, crouching down to peer inside the hole that he'd created in the covering.  The cart had been made comfortable for traveling for the child, with blankets tucked along its length and a small pillow at the head.  A small, worn doll blinked back at him with its lone eye.  He was almost ready to step back and tell the half-demon where he could shove it when a quick glint of something shiny appeared at the far edge of the blanket.  Slowly, the vamp reached inside, stopping when his fingers encountered a familiar smooth surface. 

"Now, there's only two of 'em," Doyle said as Spike pulled out the tall bottle of whisky.  "So you're going to have make them last.  And by the time they told me you were crashing our little party, I didn't have time to get the good stuff.  You'll just have to settle for the Jack."

"This was your idea?"  The second bottle was out, and the blanket tossed to the ground, as Spike gave the cart a more thorough search.

"More or less.  Holly can be a handful.  If I could've, you can bet I would've had a nip or three to help me get through the past few days."

"Don't s'pose you thought to toss in some smokes?"

A shake of his head.  "I did have the thought, but the Powers and some very overprotective women had a cow when I brought it up.  Something about not wanting to expose Holly to secondhand smoke or some such nonsense.  Personally, I always thought that's what porches were for, but does anyone ever listen to me?"

"Ah, well, that's a club I'm more than familiar with.  Consider yourself in excellent company, mate."  All enmity he'd felt toward Doyle had disappeared with the whisky peace offering.  After all, anyone who brought him the means to make handling the tyke a spot more pleasant, as well as going to bat for a cigarette allotment, couldn't be all bad.  'Course, there was that whole matter where he'd been aligned with Angel last time Spike saw him, but then again, hadn't Spike been in the same shoes at one point?

"I know it's a bit stingy," Doyle said.  "But---."

"No, no, it's bloody marvelous.  I could very well kiss you for this."

"You have to excuse Spike."  Buffy's voice rang clear from the entrance to the cabin, prompting both men to turn and look at her.  "For some reason, he seems to be having control issues with his lips lately."

The light from the fire outlined her in red and gold, making her seem larger than life as she stood there with her arms folded across her chest.  Every ounce of frustration that he'd felt at her too-easy acceptance for the child burned away at the sight of her, and the corner of his mouth lifted as he looked pointedly at the sill over her head.

"You're the one standin' under the mistletoe, luv," he said.

Her head shot up at that, her back straightening, as if she'd completely forgotten the significance of the greenery in the doorway.  Slowly, her chin came back down, but where Spike expected her to bolt from her position, she surprised him by deliberately leaning against the jamb, her eyes locked with his in defiance.

"It's cold out here," Buffy said.  "What say we bring this inside so that I can find out what the hell is going on, OK, boys?"

-----

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy watched Spike pull the glasses out of the cupboard.  He could almost be whistling, he was in that good of a mood, and she wondered how it was that a little bit of alcohol---not even consumed yet---could do that to the vamp.  His agitation about allowing Holly into the house had not been that unexpected, considering his reluctance about committing to Jenny's request in the first place.  Of course, that reluctance had been mirrored in herself, until she'd actually seen who it was she was supposed to be protecting.  How could he expect her to turn her back on a helpless little girl?

"None for me," Doyle said from his seat at the table, waving off the glass of Jack Daniels Spike offered him.

His scarred brow lifted.  "You sure 'bout that?"

"As sure as the damn magic that makes me solid says I have to be."  He sighed.  "You drink up.  I'll just sit here and get my jollies by watching you enjoy it."  A finger lifted in warning.  "And you _better_ enjoy it, after the strings I pulled to get it for you."

"No problems there, mate."  Spike hopped up onto the counter, where the first thing he did was take a long swig.  With his head tilted back, Buffy found herself entranced by the angular lines of his throat, the powerful muscles flexing as he swallowed the whisky.  When he exhaled in pleasure upon completion, his gaze returned to the pair sitting at the table, to catch the Slayer staring at him in fascination.

"Fancy a nip?" he asked, holding up his glass to her.  His eyes twinkled as she visibly started, the entendre bringing a hot flush of color to her cheeks, and then chuckled when she deliberately turned back to Doyle.

"Please tell me you're going to be a little more straight with some answers than Jenny was," she said.

"Oh, so you're willing to admit it was her, now, are you?" he teased.

"Let's just say I'm more willing to be open-minded on the subject," came the rejoinder.  "I can be the Queen of Open-Mindedness if I need to be."  Spike's amused snort made her glare at him for a moment, but he just smirked back.

"I can tell you what I know," Doyle was saying, "but that's not a whole lot.  Been a bit busy getting Holly here."  His eyes scanned the otherwise empty room.  "Speaking of, where'd you tuck the tot away?"

"In the bedroom.  She was asleep by the time I covered her up.  How long have you two been on the move?"

He grew contemplative.  "It's hard for me to tell," he finally said.  "Two weeks maybe?  Time's a little funny for me when I'm like this, but two weeks sounds about right."

"Where'd you bring her from?  Where's her parents?"

"Dead.  Maria had them killed when she was born.  She's been living with caretakers in northern Canada since then.  Right up until Maria found her again at the beginning of the month, and killed off the caretakers before the Powers could get the kid out of there."

There was that name again.  _Maria_.  The one Jenny said Holly had to be protected from.  Now she was beginning to understand why.

"So what's so special about her?" Buffy asked.  "Holly, I mean."

Doyle shrugged.  "I'm not all that sure," he admitted.  "I know that Maria needs her for some sort of ritual, but how that can be when magic doesn't work on her, I have no clue."

"Whoa."  Buffy held up her hand to cut him off before he could go any further.  "What's this about magic not working on her?"

"Just what I said.  It's why I can't touch her.  As far as she's concerned, I'm still a ghost 'cause the spell that makes me solid doesn't work for her."

"So I guess the redemption gig with Angel proved a tad more fatal than you thought it would," Spike commented from the sidelines.

Buffy's eyes widened in surprise.  "You worked with Angel?"

"Still might.  Like I said, time gets a little funny on this side of the grave."  At the confusion on both blondes' faces, Doyle grinned.  "You might want to have another taste of that Jack, Spike.  This'll probably make more sense then."

"I'd settle for _any_ sense."

His grin widened.  "Can't really vouch for that, but I can try, now can't I?  See, it's like this.  Fighting the good fight doesn't always end when you pass on.  There's those of us that keep on helping the Powers in whatever way we can, and since they're everywhere, everywhen…time becomes fairly meaningless.  Until we're running out of it, that is."

His words brought a chill to Buffy's bones.  "Are you saying I'm going to have to keep slaying even after I die?" she asked.  She felt, rather than saw, Spike stiffen, and somehow understood that the tension he exhibited was in direct support of her indignation.  Why he was as upset by the revelation as she was, though, she had no idea.

"Not unless you really want to," Doyle said with a shake of his head.  "Slayers get a bye to spend their time as they wish."

"It's just when we're living that we get shackled to your every whim."  Her sarcasm was automatic, but his reply had eased a bit of the knot inside her.  Carefully, she glanced over at Spike to gauge his reaction, but his normally readable face was closed, his thick brows drawn together as he just watched her.

"Holly's not so bad," came from Doyle.  "Well-behaved, for being three.  Smart as a whip.  And did I mention, out of nappies?  Completely trained, she is.  That made the trip here a lot more tolerable, that's for sure."

"Don't forget bein' hunted by this Maria bird," offered Spike.

"Well, aye, that too."

"What is it with the New Year's deadline?" Buffy asked.  "Is that when the second guard takes over babysitting duties or something?"

"Holly turns four.  Whatever it is that Maria wants with her won't work then.  Something about the magic of three.  And don't ask me about what it is exactly she's going to do, because I don't know.  I'm just the messenger boy."

The room turned vacuous as the trio lapsed into silence, only the hiss and crackle of the fire lending any sound within the walls.  She didn't like the situation, or being forced into this guardianship with Spike as her unwilling partner, but confronted with the wide eyes of a three-year-old child, how could she possibly say no?  Most likely, Jenny had known that.

It just would've been nice to be asked about it first.

And there was the Spike part of the equation.  Buffy knew that his earlier discontentment about the shift in their situation most likely stemmed not only from his irritation with anything remotely cute or adorable, but also from the new state of affairs between them---.

_Not an affair!  Just a few kisses does not an affair make!_

When he'd challenged her under the mistletoe the second time, an ebony and ivory statue against the midnight sky, she'd had only moments to make her decision.  Did she scuttle away and hide from the green, ignoring everything that had happened between them prior to Doyle's arrival and proving him right yet again?  Or did she take the bull by the horns---or the vamp by the balls, and _oh god I did _not_ just think of grabbing Spike's…I didn't!---_and stand her ground, admitting to what she'd felt---what they'd both felt---the first time she'd stood beneath the mistletoe?

She decided after watching the play of emotions over his face when she leaned against the jamb---surprise, amusement, and then finally hunger---that she really, really, _really_ liked getting that kind of reaction from him.  It was something she would have to try to repeat very soon.

"I should probably go get Holly's things from the cart," Doyle said, breaking the silence.  He rose from his chair.  "I'm surprised she fell asleep without Baby.  She's never without that doll."

"Are you going to be spending the night?" Buffy asked, following him to the door.

He shook his head.  "One of the side effects of the spell.  I'm solid, but my body doesn't have the same needs a living one does.  No sleeping, no eating…"  He looked longingly at the glass of whisky that was still cradled in Spike's hand.  "…no drinking.  And besides, my job here is done.  Any minute now, the Powers should see fit to zap me back into ghosthood.  But I appreciate the offer."

She hugged her arms tight against the cold as Doyle opened the door and stepped onto the porch.  "So that's it?  You just drop her off and go?"

He seemed to consider that for a moment.  "That sounds about right."

"What about words of advice?"

From behind her, Spike piped up.  "I'd think a bottle of tranqs to knock her out 'til after the holidays wouldn't exactly be amiss here."

"Look," Doyle said, as he began pulling Holly's few belongings from the wagon, "it's really not that bad.  Think of her as just a little you.  If she gets hungry, feed her.  If she mucks herself up, give her a bath.  And when she's tired, you put her to bed.  See?  Easy."

"That's because you're the one who gets to leave this place," Buffy muttered, but smiled anyway when she added loud enough for him to hear.  "If you say so."

-----

He waited until it was just the two of them again before approaching her.

"Buffy," Spike said, and it wasn't until he saw the slight widening of her eyes that he realized he'd called her by her first name.

"Please don't tell me you want to talk about what happened," the Slayer said wearily.  She was busy sorting through the small bag Doyle had left, refolding the tiny clothes absently before setting them on the kitchen table.  "I _really_ don't have the energy to deal with you right now."

The anger rose unbidden.  OK, so he _had_ wanted to talk about the kisses, but bugger her if he was going to admit to it now.  She was standing there, acting like she was the only one put out by this situation, when…

"Ever think I might have a spot to say about playin' Ward to your June?" he shot.  "Maybe I want to chat about the kid.  Ever consider that?"

Buffy stopped, gazing at him for a long moment.  "OK," she finally said, "that was unbelievably dumb, even coming from you."

"What?  I can't have an opinion here?"

"You've already made your opinion perfectly clear, Spike.  If you were any more clear, you'd be the Invisible Man."

"Except I already am," Spike barked.  "I might as well not be around for as much as what I say is mattering.  Just remember, you're the one who keeps tossing out words like _partners_, and _together_, and _it's not because of the mistletoe_---."

"Ha!"  His words brought her to life, her finger jumping up to point in accusation.  "I _knew_ this was about the kissing!"

"You're bloody well right it is!" 

"Can you stop thinking with your lips for two seconds and remember we've got a job to do here?" she replied.  "There's this little matter of how either one of us is going to be able to take care of a three-year-old without accidentally setting her on fire---."

"You're the one with the pyro tendencies, pet.  I just wanted to leave her out in the cold."

"And why is that?  It's not like you managed to do that with me."

The reminder of how he'd saved her from the accident stopped both of them in their tracks, leaving Buffy's chest heaving as the adrenaline from their argument surged through her veins, and Spike's eyes glittering as he glared down at her.  The knowledge that he'd risked so much, stepped outside of his comfort zone of hating the Slayer to save her life, still rankled with a discordant bite as neither knew exactly how to adapt the information to their constantly shifting circumstances, and both hesitated as each considered how to proceed.

A small sneeze from behind them could've been a bullet for the reaction it got from the pair, and Buffy whirled to face the sound just as Spike snapped back from the tilt his head had started to make toward the Slayer.  In the bedroom doorway, Holly stood watching them, her nose running slightly before she sniffled loudly.

"I miss Baby," she whined.

It took Buffy a second to realize to what she was referring.  "Oh," she finally blurted, and picked up the doll from where it sat on the table.  "You mean this?"

Holly nodded, and held out her hands for the toy as Buffy walked across to give it to her.  "Are you fighting?" she asked the Slayer once she had Baby tucked safely in her arms.

Shooting a glance backwards, she saw the vampire cross his arms and perch himself against the edge of the table, waiting to hear her response just as avidly as Holly was.  Fine, she thought in grim determination.  Be that way.

"Just a little," Buffy admitted to the child.  She'd always hated it when her parents lied to her about something she knew to be true; no way was she going to make that mistake.  "But we're done with it now."

"Doyle says Spike gets cranky."

"Hey!"

Buffy stifled her laugh, feeling it want to escape through her nose in a snort.  "Doyle's very smart," she managed to say with a straight face.

"Doyle says if I'm good and nice to Spike, he won't get cranky with me."

"Well, that's a good _theory_---."

"Maybe if you were nicer to Spike, he wouldn't be cranky with you."

It was Spike's turn to laugh, the raucous mirth filling the room, and the heat that rose in Buffy's cheeks had nothing to do with the fire in the hearth.  "Time to go back to sleep," she announced to the child, taking her by the shoulder and turning her around to face the dark bedroom.  "You've had a long day."

"OK," Holly mumbled in agreement.  "G'night, Spike."

He was waiting for Buffy when she returned from tucking Holly back in, only he'd risen from his seat to meet her at the doorway.  Without saying a word, Spike grabbed her by the wrist and led her to the bathroom, firmly closing the door between them and the sleeping child.

"Not that this is exactly the most romantic room in the place," he said as he blocked her way of egress, "but it should keep the noise down for the tot out there.  Unless, of course, you decide to throw me through the door, in which case you can be the one to bloody explain to the chit what's goin' on between us."

"What is it you want, Spike?" she asked.

All joking disappeared from his blue eyes, and the lines around his mouth smoothed, making his face seem surprisingly vulnerable as he answered her question.  "Just wanna know where I stand with you, pet," he said quietly.  "I sodding hate this feeling of standing on quicksand all the time.  Give a bloke a break and tell it to me straight for once."

"We're partners," she replied, equally quiet.  When his lips thinned at the familiar word, she added, "Fifty-fifty."

He was deathly still.  "That means…equals," Spike said.  "Is that what you meant?"

She'd hoped to avoid using that word, but it looked like he wasn't going to give her a choice.  "Yeah."

Taking a step closer, Spike lifted his hand and ran a bent knuckle along the underside of her jaw.  "Business partners?  Or…something else?"

The possibility of something else made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end at his touch.  She'd already made the choice, hadn't she?  That's what the mistletoe---both times---had been about.  It was time to stop waffling and stick with a decision.

"There's no reason it can't be a _little_ something else," she said.  When his head started to bend to kiss her, though, she brought her hand up and stuck it in front of his pursed lips, halting the motion.  "On two conditions."

"And those would be?"

"It doesn't get in the way of what we need to do to protect Holly from Maria."

"So we'll just drug the kiddie up for the duration so that we can have our fun," he joked, letting his hands fall to her hips as he tugged her closer.

She ignored the stab at humor, though trying to ignore the erection that was starting to press into her stomach was a little more difficult.  "_And_," she went on, "none of this goes back to Sunnydale."

That made him stop, some of the hardness returning to his features.  "Makin' me your dirty little secret doesn't sound like equals to me, Slayer."

When he said it like that, it didn't sound like equals to her, either, but Buffy wasn't prepared to budge on that particular condition, no matter how delectable his lips looked pouting like that.  "You're saying you see yourself as a Scooby?" she said instead.  "I would've thought you'd hate that."

A flicker of barely restrained disgust flashed behind his eyes.  "Still don't like it," Spike argued.

"Too bad."

"So your definition of equals means you still get to call all the shots?"  His hands fell from her body, the space between them returning as he turned back to the doorway.  "I want you, Slayer, can't really deny that.  And I'd be lyin' if I didn't say I hadn't considered what it would be like to have those dimpled knees of yours wrapped around me so tight I popped.  But you know what?  You and your lot may've stripped me of the lion's share of my dignity over the past few months, but I think I'll just hold on to this last little shred, if you don't mind."  He opened the door, and for a moment, she imagined she saw what looked like hurt behind the sapphire of his gaze.  "You change your mind 'bout treating me like your latest vamptoy, you know where you can find me."

He was out the door, his boots on the ladder to the loft, before she could stop him.  _What just happened here?_ she wondered.

Except she knew.  She'd tried to play the game according to her rules, just like she'd done with so much else in her life, and Spike had called her on her selfishness, refusing to accept her stipulations with a few chosen words designed to make her feel as small as possible.  Only he would have the nerve to do that, she realized.  Not even Angel had ever had the balls to say two words against some of the decisions she'd made for them.

Well, until he walked completely out of her life, that is.

The worst of it was…

…she knew Spike was right.

-----

Joyce stifled her yawn as she walked up the path to Giles' apartment.  His call at the gallery hadn't taken her too much by surprise; Buffy's failure to check back in with her had started Joyce to worrying days earlier.  Not that it wasn't like her daughter to get wrapped up in something and forget about good old Mom, but not even Buffy usually forgot about Christmas. 

Still, he'd seemed…off during their brief conversation, half of what he said not making very much sense.

_"Since we're going to be away longer than I'd anticipated," he'd said, "could I trouble you for a small favor?"_

_"Of course."___

_"I'm afraid I've left Spike all on his own.  Would you mind terribly just popping around and making sure he's not dead?"_

_"Spike?__  But I thought---."_

_"It's a nuisance, I know," Giles had interrupted.  "And normally, my being gone for a few days wouldn't make a difference.  After all, he's just a goldfish.  But still, I'd appreciate it if you could just check in on him, make sure he's got plenty of food.  I left an extra supply on the right corner of my desk."_

She'd stopped questioning him at that point, too confused as to when Rupert might've gotten a fish, and even more bewildered that he would name it Spike of all things.  But she'd agreed to check in after work, noting when he mentioned it where he kept the spare key.

She yawned again as she pushed open the door into the inky apartment.  It would've been nicer if she hadn't been caught at the gallery with a shipment that was missing a rare Peruvian urn, but she'd promised Rupert she'd feed his fish before going home that night, and darn it all, she was going to stick to that promise. 

Blinking against the light when she flicked the switch, Joyce hesitated on the threshold while her eyes quickly scanned the room.   He hadn't said where he was keeping the fish, and there was no aquarium in sight in the immediate vicinity.  OK, she thought.  Then I'll start with what he did tell me.

When she stood in front of the desk, she wondered for a long moment if she'd heard him wrong.  Other than the small lamp, Rupert's desk was almost completely clear, the only thing on it a rental car agreement in the corner he'd said the food was.  Frowning, she picked it up and opened it, scanning over the details of the car he'd hired to drive to the conference.  Along the margin, the Watcher had scribbled the name of the resort they were supposed to stay at and a phone number.

I must've been more tired than I realized, Joyce thought as she closed the packet again.  I had to have heard him wrong. 

There was only one way to remedy the situation, and in spite of the late hour, Joyce picked up the phone.  She had no doubt Rupert held the same sort of hours Buffy did, and besides, this time, she might actually catch her daughter in the room.  The last thing she expected, however, was…

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but Mr. Giles never showed up for his room reservation."

Further inquiry revealed that, though there was a convention currently at the resort, it was a group of dentists on retreat, and Joyce sincerely doubted they were the ones interested in hearing the Watcher's speech.

When she hung up the phone, she knew one thing for certain.

Something was dreadfully wrong.  And Rupert was in some kind of trouble he needed her help with.  It had to be the reason he'd made up the ridiculous story about having a fish named after his houseguest; he would know that she'd see straight through it once she showed up at the apartment.

The thought of the Watcher in trouble was disturbing enough.  It was the prospect that Buffy had left with him, and that he'd deliberately opted to call to tell Joyce that her daughter was all right, that had her the most concerned.

They definitely needed her help.

To be continued in Chapter 16:  Follow Me in Merry Measure…


	16. Follow Me in Merry Measure

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Doyle has left Holly in Buffy and Spike's care, but when Buffy finally broke down and offered Spike some semblance of a relationship, he turned her down because he didn't like her conditions…

-----

It was the first time since they'd arrived at the cabin that she'd thought of the couch as uncomfortable.

Mesmerized by the sinuous leaps of the fire, Buffy altered her position for the sixth time in the past half hour, this time rolling onto her side in order to better see the effects of the orange and crimson flames as they reflected off the floor.  Around her feet, the blanket she was cocooned inside came undone, but she left her toes bare, the heat from the hearth more than enough to keep her warm for the time being. 

_Spike would make me cover them up.  He'd have some excuse about me getting sick again or something._

Automatically, she squeezed her eyes shut, almost wincing at the intrusion of the vampire into her thoughts.  _Am I interpreting _everything_ through a Spike filter now?_ she wondered in annoyance.  _Is this a Slayer version of cabin fever?_

Whatever it was, she had to do something about it fast, because not being able to sleep due to a severe abundance of Spike on the brain was wrong in more ways than even a brainiac like Willow could count.  And when her brain slid into the natural continuation of _not sleeping wouldn't be as bad if it was a severe abundance of Spike on the body_, she knew she would have to do something drastic.

Right, she thought, taking in a deep breath.  I can do this.

Just block him out…

…she wouldn't think about how much it pissed her off that he got to take the high road on her proposition and she came off as the baddie…

…and she wouldn't remember how his voice had deepened and coarsened at her mention of partners, the bright flicker deep within the blue that coincided with his mixed sense of disbelief and awe that she would suggest such a thing…

…and she definitely wouldn't dwell on steel thighs pressing to hers, or silken lips sliding across her jaw, or the heady scent of his skin when being such scant millimeters from tasting it made Buffy's mouth start to water just in memory…

"Arghhhh!!!"  Burying her face into her pillow to muffle the sounds of her frustration, Buffy flipped onto her stomach and tried to scream the irritation out of her system, her blankets twisting around her body in a rough approximation of a straitjacket gone mad.  The slickness between her legs didn't make her release any easier, nor did the small shivers that ran down her spine when her pebbled nipples rubbed roughly against the couch cushion.  And when her gurgled cry finally faded and she took in a deep though stifled breath, the scent of eau de Spike that pervaded the pillow filled her head, making her jump backwards into a sitting position.

This is getting ridiculous, she thought.  Her eyes jumped to the ladder to the loft, the top half hidden in shadows as the rungs seemed to climb into nothingness.  It's only Spike.  The same vampire who tried to kill me six ways to Sunday before getting chipped.  _The same vampire who's saved my life almost as much just since we got to this stupid place.___

It should've been simple.  If he'd only just accepted her conditions, she could be sleeping right now, curled up in a nice comfy bed instead of being alone on the couch.  She wasn't even entirely sure what his objections actually were.  Since when did Spike care what she thought, or what the others thought about him?  He had no interest in fighting the good fight, or in being nice to any of her friends.  Hadn't he proven that, ad nauseum, to her in the past?

The more Buffy thought about it, the angrier she got.

The angrier she got, the more awake she became.

And the more awake she became, the better it sounded to just go up to the loft and give Spike a piece of her mind.

She never even gave a second thought to the sleeping child in the next room.

-----

He couldn't sleep for wondering just what in bloody fucking hell he'd been thinking, brushing off the Slayer like that.

Staring up at the ceiling, Spike could hear her tossing and turning on the couch below, every move she made a sandpaper whisper across his skin that taunted him with the promise of what he didn't dare take now.  Sure, she'd royally pissed him off with her holier than thou provisos, and for about thirty seconds after he'd stomped out of the bathroom with his pride held high in smug satisfaction, Spike had been pleased as punch at besting Buffy at her own game.

It was the three hours, twenty-six minutes, and thirty seconds that followed that were less than stellar.  When the reality of what exactly he'd refused slammed back into his consciousness with the subtlety of a Mack truck.

Right now, his body was at war with itself.  His head was triumphant in its gloating, crowing to any other limb or organ that would listen about how gobsmacked he'd left the Slayer, and that the look on her face when he'd sauntered from the bathroom was almost worth getting chipped for.

Other, more netherly-located, parts raged on about what an absolute prat he was being, because passing up the opportunity to shag the Slayer was the daftest thing he'd done since coming back to Sunnydale and turning into Plan 17 from Inner Space for Uncle Sam.  Who cared what her conditions were?  All they could think about was the scent of Buffy's…well, everything, and what it would be like to have a handful of hot, Slayer flesh to hold onto while she rode him into the bloody sunset.

And the organ in between, the one long unbeating and most of the time forgotten, was caught in its own little world, whispering in his ear all the complications of emotions that were better left denied.

He knew he had to sleep; the sprout hogging the other bed in the joint would most likely be up at the crack of dawn and demand to be fed, or some such nonsense.  He'd even considered wanking off to relieve some of the tension, but the first time his hand strayed to his semi-erect cock, Spike had stopped just before touching, the memory of soft breasts and softer lips making the act seem somehow hollow all of a sudden.  He'd growled at her control over him, even at such an emotional distance, and lashed out at the blankets instead, kicking them to the floor and just lying there on the sheets, fists balled at his sides as he fought not scream out loud.

He heard her as soon as she rose from the couch, of course.  All he'd been doing for the past three and a half hours was listening to every Buffy noise, analyzing what she was doing, how she was lying, what she was wearing.  When she got up from the sofa, Spike imagined that it was probably just to go to the bathroom, or get a drink.  He didn't imagine that she'd start climbing the ladder to the loft, but once the realization had sunk in, he quickly closed his eyes and feigned slumber so that she wouldn't know he was still up as well.

The scent of adrenaline hit him first, followed almost instantaneously by the quickening of her heartbeat.  When Buffy's sharp inhalation reached his ears, Spike waited for her to enact whatever purpose had brought her to his room, but was met with a deafening silence.  That seemed to last an eternity.

_What is she bloody waiting for?_

He was about to pretend to wake up, just to see what could be keeping her so silent---because, for future reference, that was a trick he was going to have to learn how to repeat---when a certain recognition of his current circumstances struck Spike.

Fact number one.  His blankets were no longer on the bed.

Fact number two.  Except for those few times downstairs, and for the time he'd spent at Rupert's house, Spike slept without any of his kit on.  It was just more comfortable that way.

Fact number three.

…Fuck.

_That's_ what was going on, he realized.  She was just standing there gawping at him, and while he didn't exactly have anything to be ashamed of---.

Hold up.

Why exactly was he bothered by this?  _She_ was the one not moving from her vantage point.  _She _was the one whose body betrayed her every reaction to seeing him like this.  _He_ didn't have a bloody thing to be fussed about; in fact, maybe seeing what exactly she was missing out on would be enough to knock some sense into Little Miss Herbal Essences, and they could finally get around to the shagging that should've happened before she opened her big mouth.

The instant his cock started to swell again in response to the much-more pleasant images now playing inside his skull, Spike heard a distinct gulp, and then the swish of fabric dragging across the wooden floor.  When the blankets dropped onto his midsection, his eyes flew open, and he saw an enraged Slayer standing over him.

"You're a pig," she spat out, turning on her heel to go back downstairs.

"Well, that's a disappointment," Spike drawled, sitting up.  He was tempted to let the blankets continue to slip down his body as he did so, but when his words stopped Buffy in her tracks, he grabbed the edge and held it against his hip.  "All this way just to toss me one of your old standby's?"  His tongue clucked in mock reproval.  "Someone's slippin'."

"A little sign around your neck saying 'I'm so in love with myself, I sleep in the nude' might've been helpful, Spike."

"Funny, but something tells me that my neck wasn't where you were lookin', pet."

The bright color in her cheeks was conspicuous even in the dim light that filtered from below.  "Get over yourself," she snapped.

She looked ready to bolt, but the fact that she'd stayed so long already gave the vampire a strange sense of hope.  "There a point to this little visit?" he asked.   "'Cause I was just in the middle of a particularly pleasant dream when I was so rudely awakened."

Buffy's eyes slid for a second to his waist and the unmistakable bulge the blanket barely hid before jumping back to his face.  The corner of his mouth lifted when she said, "Please say it wasn't about me."

"But that would be lyin'," he said in false innocence.  "And here I thought we were past that little phase of our relationship."

"Spike.  We don't _have_ a relationship."

His smile faded.  "No, now there you're right, Buf---Slayer.  What we've got is a bit of a muddle, isn't it?"

"That's not the half of it," he heard her mutter. 

She didn't move, and he didn't move, and the air between them grew thicker as a minute slipped into two.  It stayed that way until he finally slumped against the headboard, blue eyes almost black as they riveted to the gaze she couldn't quite settle on his face.

"You're not hurtin' again, are you?" he asked quietly, hating that he caved so quickly in front of her.  Since when did she have that power over him?  It had certainly never been that way before.

There was a moment where she seemed to hesitate, and then her chin lifted as she reached some unknown conclusion.  "Yes," Buffy replied.  "My…wrist is acting up, and it's not letting me sleep.  I was thinking…"

"Dangerous…"

"…that you could, maybe, do that thing you did the other night," she finished, ignoring his slight gibe.  "When I couldn't sleep because of the frostbite."

"It was just frost_nip_, pet, and you're tellin' me you want a bleedin' _bedtime story_?  I thought the Holly bird was the babe in the woods here, not you."

As she bristled at his mocking tone, Spike held back the eager bite of want that surged forward at the possibility of having her sleeping at his side by affecting his most disdainful smirk.  The battles that had been waged between his various body parts came to a temporary détente as the reality of Buffy returned.  He'd won his moral war by her coming to him first, so the intellect could still remain superior; she was standing there wanting him just as much as he wanted her, so his cock was more than happy; and as for his heart…well, even Spike had to begrudgingly admit it seemed a little less tight just having her in the same space as him.  Whatever she wanted, he'd be more than willing to do; he was just going to let her twist in the wind a bit before succumbing to her whim.

"Never mind," Buffy said.  "Forget I asked.  In fact, I _never_ asked.  This conversation?  Never happened."

But she still wasn't moving.

And her heart rate had started accelerating again.

"Is it really that hard?" Spike commented.  This was getting old, even if he was glad she hadn't turned tail and run.

"What?"

"Sayin' you need me."

"I thought I'd already done that."

"You know what I mean."

"I told you.  I couldn't sleep."

"And you want me to remedy that?"

"I don't know what I want!"  It wasn't excitement that was thrumming her veins; it was frustration, and it drove the Slayer to start pacing around the small space about the bed.  "I mean, I thought I did, and I laid it out there, and then you try and tell me it's not good enough?  What is that, Spike?  Since when am _I_ not good enough for _you_?"

"Is that what you think that was about, Slayer?"  No longer caring about covering himself up, Spike sat up at her diatribe, anger raising his voice.  "You're tellin' me that putting out _all_ the rules, and saying we do this your way or no way, isn't just a tad _selfish_?"

That brought her to a stop.  "You're a _vampire_!  How dare you lecture me about being _selfish_?  You've got the moral code of Ted Bundy!"

"Which is why I pulled your ass from Rupert's car before you turned into Slayer on a Stick, right?"

"Stop changing the subject!"

"Do you even know what the subject _is_?"  He was out of the bed, eyes flashing and oblivious to his state of undress, and standing in front of her as the taunts continued to come.  "Who is it you're really mad at here, pet?  Not feelin' guilty for bein' such a bitch, are you?"

"What?  No!"

Spike smirked.  "I'd say something here about too much protesting, but then, that would require a _lady_ bein' present."

He saw the hit coming long before the muscles contracted in her arm.  Even as the words slipped from his mouth, he could see the anger in her face melt into hurt, and then revert back to venom long before Buffy took her swing at his nose.  Lifting his hand, he blocked it easily with his forearm, and took a small step forward to deny her the space to try it again.  The movement pressed their pelvises together when she didn't counter his shift, and though his erection had abated slightly in their argument, the heat of her flushed skin through the thin fabric of her t-shirt brought it back with a throbbing hunger.

Her eyes were huge as she lifted them to his face.  When she finally moved---an eternity, it seemed, to Spike---it wasn't backwards, away from his touch, like he expected.  Instead, it was the smallest of shifts sideways, which caused the head of his cock to brush against her stomach, sending a cascade of sensation straight through his veins and making him groan in spite of his determination not to give her the satisfaction.

"Spike…" she breathed. 

"Don't," he croaked, when her head started to tilt toward his, and stopped her from getting nearer by placing his hands on her shoulders.  The battle within had resumed, only this time a clear winner was quickly declared. 

Though having his chest ache as much as it did certainly didn't seem fair when his heart had come out ahead.  Since when was winning supposed to hurt?

"What?" Buffy asked, confused.  "Why not?"  She accompanied the questions with another slide of her torso, and in those seconds that stretched to forever, Spike wondered just what it was he was arguing against.

"Told you," he finally managed to say.  He wasn't backing off, though; he couldn't, not when each glimmer of her touch was deliciously insufficient.  He had to stay there in order to add up enough of the caresses to satisfy what he wanted…if that could ever truly happen.

"Oh."  She seemed to understand what he was referring to without his need to elaborate, and he watched her falter as her bottom lip got snagged by her teeth.  "Well…about that…maybe…I don't know…we could compromise?"

She'd said it.  She'd actually said it.  His eyes dropped to her mouth and watched her nibble at her lip, imagining what those same nips being applied elsewhere to his person would feel like, and struggled not to throw her onto the bed and find out for real.  "What?" he said, feigning ignorance of her meaning.  "You want to punt the tadpole into the nearest snowbank and spend the next ten days shaggin' instead?"

"No."  A small frown.  "I meant…you know what I meant."

"Do I?"

Just a small taste.  That's all he wanted.  And she was already folding on the equality issue, so his heart couldn't actually argue about getting smashed into smithereens by her over-inflated white hat, now could it?

His cheek brushed her temple as Spike bent his head, the perfume from her shampoo mingling with the scent of a stray spruce needle she'd failed to catch during her earlier tangle.  This was how he would always remember Christmas smelling like, he half-realized in amazement when his mouth pressed to the hollow beneath her ear.  A blend of Buffy, and pine, and peaty smoke that made his throat tighten, his body hum.  Funny how over a century with Dru hadn't offered the same sort of sensory pleasure for this particular holiday…

A small scrape of wood against wood somewhere far away made her freeze against Spike's caress.  "What was that?" Buffy whispered.

He had a good idea, but bugger if he was going to stop now.  "Forget it," Spike murmured, but when he tried to pull her closer, Buffy's hands came up to his chest and pushed, forcing the distance to return between them.

"Is that Holly?" she asked, and craned her neck to look over the railing to the floor before.

"Probably just goin' to the loo," Spike offered.  "Doyle said she was housebroken.  Kids do that."

She ignored his suggestion, and broke completely away.  "Holly?" she called out as she stepped to the ladder.

When there wasn't an immediate response, Spike came up to her side and glanced down to see the toddler just standing in the middle of the room.  Her doll was clutched tightly to her chest, her mousy-brown hair tangled into a rats-nest in the back.  He couldn't see her face from that angle, but the eerie stillness of her pose almost sent a shiver down his bare spine.

"Holly?" Buffy called again, and when the second attempt wasn't acknowledged either, she turned her frowning gaze back to the vampire.  "Why isn't she answering me?"

"I'd say nobody's home."  He'd automatically dropped his voice to match hers.  "I think Doyle might've forgotten to mention Little Orphan Annie down there likes to go for midnight strolls."  When her confusion didn't go away, Spike added, "She sleepwalks, Slayer."

"Oh.  Isn't she a little young for that?"

He shook his head.  "There's no age limit on this sort of thing.  Just take her back into bed all gentle-like, and try not to wake her up.  That's about all you can do for her."

She started to head for the ladder and then stopped, glancing back at him.  "How do you know about sleepwalking?" she asked curiously.

"Dru did her fair share of it," he replied.  All of a sudden, he felt too visible, standing there without his clothes on, his erection fading with the onset of bittersweet memories.  Turning away from her, he grabbed at the jeans that lay crumpled on the floor, trying to block out the images of alabaster skin streaked with blood and the sound of his dark princess' voice when it singsonged into the night.  _Focus on the now_.  _Think of Buffy_.

"'Course," he added with his back to the Slayer, "half the time I wasn't so sure if it was sleeping or just one of her spells, but I treated 'em all the same, just in case.  One of the few times I'd go by the better to be safe than sorry edict."

From downstairs, the sound of a door opening and closing echoed in the cabin.

"See?" Spike said, buttoning his jeans.  "She put herself to bed.  You're all sort---."  He turned to see the Slayer disappearing down the ladder.  "What're you doin?"

"She's not in the bedroom," she replied.  He looked over the railing in time to see Buffy grab her shoes.  "She went outside."

She wasn't even bothering with a coat, and Spike swore under his breath when she followed the toddler out into the still-dark night, hopping on a single foot as she struggled to her shoes on at the same time.  "Stupid bint's never goin' to learn," he muttered, leaping down to follow her.

On the porch stairs, Buffy stood in the inky blackness, already shivering from the cold, her head whipping back and forth as she scanned the murk of the forest in front of them for any sign of Holly.

"Were you born in a barn?" Spike complained as he hopped down to her side.  "I've got to be the only one who bothers to close that damn door."

"Where is she?"  She gestured wildly to the tramped snow at their feet.  "I can't even tell which footprints are hers, and how exactly did she get out of my sight so fast?"

Spike sighed.  "Go back in," he said, trudging down the remaining stairs.  "I'll find her before she wanders off into more trouble."

"And how exactly are you going to do that?"

He turned now-golden eyes to face the Slayer, and smiled around his fangs.  "Same way I always found you."

He didn't wait for her reply, just whirled and went off in the direction of the tiny heartbeat he could hear under the humming music of the pre-dawn forest.  Lucky for him, he found the girl before his brain could work too hard on the implications of how quickly he'd jumped to the rescue---_just covering my ass so Buffy doesn't get sick again, no more nursemaid for me_---and Spike deliberately slowed his heavy pace as he approached.

"Anyone ever tell you, you're more trouble than you're worth?" he crooned, in a dulcet pitch that contradicted the menace behind the words.  Past experience told him it didn't matter what he said to her; all she'd respond to was the tone of his voice, and not even remember any of it in the morning.

She was circling one of the trees, tiny fingers trailing along the bark, and he could hear the nonsense rhymes she spoke as each phrase added to the cold fog surrounding her head.   Her teeth were audibly chattering, but other than that, Holly seemed oblivious to the cold.

"Might be better to tie you to the bed at night," Spike said as he cautiously narrowed the gap.  "Don't really fancy you doin' any more runners that interrupt things between me and Buffy when they're just gettin' good."  He brightened.  "Better yet, we can put you in the bathtub.  Maybe then she'll see how heartless it was chaining me up so."

He was in front of her then, forcing her to halt her circuit, and he waited as she tilted her head back to look at him.  "Is she coming?" Holly asked simply, her face solemn.

Spike frowned.  "Is who comin'?"

"I didn't do it.  Honest."

He'd forgotten his own rules.  She was talking gibberish and for a split second, he'd treated it like a real conversation.  "C'mon, moptop," he said, crouching to meet her eyes.  "Time to get back to bed."

She came to him without hesitation, burrowing her face into his neck with a simple trust that made him hitch awkwardly as he straightened.  Having only slipped on his jeans before leaving, Spike suddenly regretted not having a shirt or his jacket to slip around her shivering frame, but shoved the thought to the side as he hastened back to the house.  Just doin' my job, he thought resolutely.  I'm just…doin' my job.

He didn't say a word, not even when he passed Holly over to a waiting Buffy in the doorway.  Only when the Slayer glanced curiously back at him once he'd closed the door behind him did he speak.

"What?"

Being careful not to jostle the now-sleeping child on her hip, Buffy gestured abstractly toward his face.  "She didn't freak out?"

His fingers lifted to touch the ridges that were still on his brow.  "Huh," Spike said as his vampire mask slipped away.  "Guess it doesn't bother her."

There was an awkward pause.  Holly's early morning sojourn had definitely put a crimp in their loft badinage, and though he was eager to pick up on the compromise she seemed willing to discuss now, Spike could see the Slayer swaying on her feet, exhaustion draining the adrenaline that had fuelled her thus far.

"You need to sleep," he said quietly.

"Yeah," she agreed, stifling her responsive yawn.

"Probably best if you two bunk together 'til we figure out how we're goin' to stop her from doin' another walkabout."

She just nodded, not even protesting when he nudged her in the direction of the couch.  Yawning again, Buffy stretched out on it, laying a sleeping Holly against her side.  Her eyes flickered to his when he grabbed her blanket and covered them with it, but she remained silent, even when he added his duster over the top.

He was halfway to the ladder, silently cursing whisky-bribing ghosts and tiny children who unnerved him by not being frightened when they should be, before he risked a glance back at the couch.

Buffy was fast asleep, her cheek nuzzling the soft leather of his coat, her arms tight around the girl.

If he wasn't so tired himself, he almost would've thought she was smiling.

To be continued in Chapter 17: Please Put a Penny in the Old Man's Hat…


	17. Please Put a Penny in the Old Man's Hat

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike and Buffy have learned that Holly sleepwalks, Joyce has discovered that Giles never showed up for his so-called convention, and Giles is knee-deep in trying to balance helping Buffy and finding out what is going on with Maria…

-----

The remainder of Maria's house was just as perfectly ordered as the few rooms to which he'd been confined---dark wood polished to shine with an Old World charm that seemed oddly out of place in northern California, the occasional antique displayed in the most appropriate manner, corners squared with an obsessiveness that Giles would admire if it were under other circumstances. 

In a way, he was almost disappointed.  After finishing breakfast in his room, he'd opted to explore his temporary residence under the hope he'd find something that might better explain the entire situation.  A secret room filled with sacrifice-laden altars, for instance, or a private stash of black magic books.  All he'd actually discovered, though, was that the maid Maria employed liked to play canasta with the cook when she wasn't on duty, and that his hostess had a penchant for Stickley.

The painkillers that he'd been given to counter the effects of the accident had made it possible for the beginning of the day to seem almost normal.  Giles had yet to return to his translation duties, but with the hour approaching ten, he knew he wasn't going to be able to postpone it for much longer.  The scrolls the others were convinced gave the answer on how to locate Holly were proving much more difficult than he'd originally envisioned, and with time running out, Giles was eager to find the girl and put a stop to whatever threat she posed to Buffy.

Thoughts of his Slayer led to his all-too-brief conversation with Joyce the previous evening.  Maria had granted him use of her private line, and then hovered at his elbow while he spoke to Joyce at the gallery.  It had been impossible to say anything direct, so he could only hope that his references to a pet he didn't have and the rental agreement he hoped she would find was enough to provoke her into action.  It wasn't so much for his own welfare that he cared; all Giles was concerned with was ensuring that Buffy was safe and secure and preferably unharmed.

On the way back to the study he'd commandeered for his work, Giles hesitated when he heard now-familiar voices whispering from behind a closed door.  Silas and Paul.  A moment's concentration led him to the conclusion that it was just the two men on the other side, unless Maria was in there and remaining silent.  However, in the brief time he'd already spent in her home, Giles had already deduced that she was not one to stay in the background in regards to this project of hers.  At every opportunity, she was in the midst of their work, asking questions, providing guidelines.  It was doubtful she was in there if he hadn't yet heard her voice.

The whispering stopped as soon as he opened the door, and Giles was relieved to see that his assessment had been correct.  Bent over a tattered book at a desk in the center of the room, Silas and Paul both looked up with a start at the sudden intrusion, lips pressing closed at the same time.  If he didn't know better, Giles would've almost thought it was guilt that was flashing in their eyes, but he quickly dismissed the notion as ridiculous.

"Hard at work?" he commented, stepping into the room.  "Or hardly working?"

Paul was up like a shot, rounding Giles with a speed that only the legs of a crane could provide, and closed the door behind him.  "A draft," he mumbled in explanation at Giles' raised eyebrow, and scurried back to the table with his head down.

"Is there something we can do for you, Mr. Giles?" A sheen of light sweat glistened on Silas' forehead, but he held himself stiffly---_too_ stiffly, Rupert imagined.  "You're not lost, are you?"

"Hardly.  I heard you speaking.  I was curious if you'd found something."  He ignored their furtive glances as he pushed his way in front of the two other men.  Niceties be damned.  If there was something up, Giles didn't want to find out about it when it was too late.

"We were just discussing---don't touch that!"

Giles was stopped in mid-reach by Paul's angular grip wrapped around his wrist.  Slowly, he lifted his eyes from the book he'd been scanning to stare coldly into McCallister's.  "I highly recommend you letting me go," he said evenly.

Paul jerked back as if scalded.  "It's an antiquity," he offered, as if the proof of it wasn't lying just inches away.

"And you think I don't know how to treat such an item?"

"No, no, it's just---."

"You have to excuse Paul," Silas interrupted.  "I'm afraid he's a bit temperamental when it comes to rare books."

Giles' gaze returned to the text on the desk.  The pages were yellowed with age, their edges charred, and in the direct center of the right was a sketch of a young girl.  "What is this?" he asked curiously.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Silas bar the younger man from stepping forward again.  "We're looking into the spell Holly might choose to use," Geen explained, and then hastily added, "At Maria's request."

His eyes were cool when they lifted from the book.  "I was under the impression that Maria already knew the means her daughter was going to employ," Giles said.

"Yes, well---."

"We're investigating other possibilities."  It was Paul's turn to interrupt.  "In case she decides to…change her mind.  At the last minute.  In case she fears we're getting too close to stopping her.  At the last minute.  Just…in case."

Each sentence was like a bullet exploding with a fresh burst of air.  It would've been humorous if McCallister hadn't appeared so much as if he feared Ripper would peek through again.  As it was, Giles wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't.

"Tell me, Paul," Giles said, casually perching himself on the edge of the desk with his back to the book.  "Do I _look_ as stupid as you seem to think I am?  Or are you just this incredibly _bad_ at lying?"

In the long silence that followed, only the ticking of the mantle clock could be heard in the room.  "I'm _that_ incredibly bad, sir," the young man finally admitted, abashed.

"Paul!"

"Shut up, Geen."  Giles didn't even bother to look at the shocked countenance of the other Watcher.  "You should be grateful that at least one of you has a modicum of common sense."

"But---."

"He really doesn't listen, does he?"  Like a shot, Giles' fist shot out and caught Silas in the jaw, sending the man stumbling to the floor behind the desk.  He was standing over him before Geen could recover, glowering down with barely controlled rage, hands in loose fists at his side while he waited to see if there would be any retaliation.  "Do you wish to try interrupting me again, Geen, or shall we have an instant replay?"

Wiping the blood mottling his lips, Silas shook his head as he shifted his bulk to a sitting position against the side of the desk.  "I wasn't---," he started to say, but when Giles' face darkened even further, he clamped his mouth shut.

Taking a swing hadn't been the brightest thing he'd done that day, Giles realized when he finally relaxed.  Though the drugs he'd taken had clouded his discomfort sufficiently enough for him to function, they weren't meant to aid and abet doing his own Lennox Lewis impersonation.  His abdomen was already aching from the strain he'd caused on the muscles, but to show a weakness now would counter everything he'd accomplished so far.

Even if he wasn't entirely certain exactly what that was yet.

"Now," Giles said, turning back to Paul, "why don't you tell me what it is you're doing in here.  The truth, this time."

"It _is_ research," he started in earnest.  "And Maria _did_ ask us to look into the possibility that a different spell could be used to corrupt the Slayer line.  She seemed to be of the opinion that there was.  'There's more than one way to skin a dead cat,' I believe her exact phrase was."

Giles' eyes narrowed.  "Go on."

"Well, there were a number of texts that I remembered spying in Maria's private study during our last meeting with her---."

"You've had private meetings with her?"

"You would have, too, if you hadn't been so difficult on your arrival," Silas said grouchily from his place on the floor.

Paul cast a furtive glance toward his elder before swallowing hard.  "It wasn't meant to be anything untoward," he said quickly.  "Merely informational.  We'd relay what we'd discovered that day, which, most of the time, was little to nothing, and Maria would instruct us on how she thought it best to continue."

"What exactly _have_ you been working on?" Giles asked.

"Much of the same as yourself.  Translating texts that supposedly detail how to track Holly."

It was Paul's deliberate usage of a certain word that made Rupert pause.  "You say…_supposedly_," he commented.  Carefully, he took a step backwards to sit down in the overstuff leather chair near the wall.  His ribs ached from his physical exertion and if he didn't take the pressure off soon, he was going to topple over in front of the pair, and look like a right yob in the process.

"Poor choice of words," Silas said.  "There is no supposedly about it."

"You saw the book---."

"We don't know if we're right---."

"How can you question that?"

"Because I have to, Paul."

"That's not what we do."

"No, that's not what we _did_."

Watching the argument go back and forth between the other two men, both of them already having forgotten that he was still in the room, Giles grew increasingly confused as their quarrel degenerated into what boiled down to a playground "I'm right/No, I'm right" exchange.  "Enough," he finally said roughly.  "This is getting us nowhere, and I imagine that none of us are interested in spinning our wheels even more than necessary, correct?"

His authoritative tone immediately dampened the rising tempers.  "What is it you suggest?" Paul asked.

"I suggest we start at the beginning," Giles replied.  "As in, what exactly is our purpose here.  Are we here to help Maria prevent the destruction of the Slayer line, or are we here to squabble like junior school guttersnipes?"

"This is ridiculous."  Silas lumbered to his feet, his handkerchief wiping the remainder of the blood from his mouth.  "If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll retire to my room until dinner.  I'm certain that I'll prove much more useful if I return to translating the T'sabl prophecies.  Good day."

Paul sighed when the door closed behind his elder, walking wearily to the desk and absently picking up one of the gloves that rested next to the book.  "I suppose I should go as well," he said as he slid it on his hand.  "Maria will be wanting an update before we eat."

"Wait.  I'd like to discuss what just happened here."

His hand hovered above the ancient book.  "But…we have work to do---."

"And it seems to me that some of that work involves whatever it is you're trying to remove from my presence."  Carefully, Giles rose from his seat, trying to hide his annoyance about being trapped in the company of such an insufferable tosser, and returned to the desk.  "Now, stop being as thick as I know you're not, and tell me what the hell is going on here."

The summary, when it came, wasn't entirely what he expected.

"I managed to slip this book into my research materials during our last meeting with Maria," Paul confessed.  "Silas didn't know, or he would've attempted to stop me.  His allegiance to Maria borders a bit on the fanatical, in case you haven't noticed."

"Yours did, too, if I remember correctly," Giles observed.

"That was before I saw this."  Using his gloved hand, Paul angled the book so that the other Watcher could see it more clearly.  "The title intrigued me, and though I didn't presume to think I'd actually find something useful in it, I was curious about what it could contain.  This…"  He pointed to the picture of the girl.  "…especially caught my eye.  But when I brought it to Silas' attention, he told me that it was complete falderal and that we should return the book to Maria's study before she realized it was gone."

The sketch was crude, a small child poised upon on altar for sacrifice, with blood dripping from her chest wound into a waiting chalice.  Surrounding her, there were three sets of triple symbols, each at the apex of the triangle that enclosed the drawing.

"What are these?" Giles asked, gesturing toward each of the trios.

"I'm not certain on those.  But this set…"  He indicated the three at the top of the triangle.  "…are glyphs for warriors."

"Slayers?"

"That's what I thought at first, but it can't be.  At least one of those is masculine."

Giles shook his head.  "So why do you think this has anything to do with Holly's plans for the Slayer line?"

"I haven't been able to translate all the text, but the portions that I have…it speaks of the Chosen power.  How it's passed on from girl to girl, and how the proper forces could decimate that."

"But this suggests a blood sacrifice.  Maria mentioned nothing about Holly requiring some sort of blood to sanctify what she's doing."

Paul's face was grim.  "I know."

At least Giles understood now about some of Geen's concerns.  These were serious allegations to wage against their hostess, and while Rupert wasn't exactly her head cheerleader, he had seen enough to know that Silas was.  "What makes you think Geen won't go to Maria and tell her what you've found?" he asked the younger man.

"Because he's afraid of her," came the reply.  "She's very powerful.  Not just in wealth, but in magics as well.  Holly's talents came directly from her, she says, and it's her fault that her daughter is as well-versed as she is.  Maria's the one who orchestrated getting you here, though she needed to supplement her abilities with mine and Silas'." 

"It would've been nice to be told some of this," Giles muttered, returning his attention to the book.

"Yes, well, we did what we felt we must."

"And now?"

"Now?"  His eyes were bleak, his gloved fingers caressing the soft-worn edges of the pages.  "We forge onward, don't we?  We have Slayers to save."

"Yes," Giles agreed, those his mind was already miles away.  "The question is, though…from whom are we saving them?"

-----

Joyce frowned as she replaced the phone on the receiver.  Calling the car rental company had proven to be a waste of time in the long run; they refused to divulge any information regarding Rupert's lease without speaking directly to him.  Even pretending to be his wife hadn't done her any good.

Her next step was the police department.  Logically, it made sense that if something had happened to Buffy and her Watcher, there would be a report of it somewhere for her to find.  The trick would be to find someone who would get the information for her without asking too many questions.

It's a good thing she lived in Sunnydale.  It was impossible not to have some sort of blackmail material on at least a few of the cops in this town.

She'd almost listened to the entire rendition of "Achy Breaky Heart" on their hold music before she got put through to the officer she'd requested.  "Hello, John?" she asked, forcing the smile on her face to radiate in her voice.  "It's Joyce Summers."

The long pause made her wonder if he was going to hang up on her after all.  It had been almost a year since the last time she'd spoken to him, and those circumstances hadn't exactly been her finest hour.  Whoever it was who told her "MOO" was a clever acronym, needed to be shot.

"What can I do for you this morning, Ms. Summers?" he finally replied, and there was a definite coolness to his tone that made it clear that doing _anything_ for her wasn't very high on his agenda.

"I've got a bit of a problem," she explained, "and I'm hoping you might help be able to help me cut through some red tape."

"Well, now, that red tape's there for a reason, I'm sure."

He wasn't going to make this easy for her, now was he?

"You'd know that better than I would, John," Joyce said, laughing.  "I mean, weren't you the one who helped Principal Snyder get the permissions to search the kids' lockers last year?"

Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat.  "Yes, well now, those were…extenuating circumstances, don't you think?"

It was a good thing he couldn't see her roll her eyes.  _Extenuating, my ass.__  I saw you knock out Rupert yourself, you putz._

Out loud, she simply said, "I'd like to think we learned a lot from those days.  Like…who you can trust and who you can't."

The silence on the other end of the line translated into _he's going to hang up on me, the asshole_ before she heard the distinct sound of a door being shut.

"What exactly is your problem, Ms. Summers?"

Briefly, she explained about the rental, glossing over the details of why she would be suspicious of wrongdoing and instead blaming it on not getting a response from the resort.  "So," she said, "I was hoping you could do some kind of check on the car.  Just to make sure it hasn't been in an accident or something.  As long as Buffy isn't hurt, I know I don't need to worry."

OK, so she'd worry anyway, but he certainly didn't need to know that.

"Rupert Giles.  Wasn't that the librarian from the high school?"

"Yes."  _The one you clocked, remember?  _"I'm sure you remember what a mentor he was for Buffy."

Another uncomfortable cough.  "Um, yeah, well, yeah.  So…all you want is to know if the car's been reported in an accident, right?"

Hope flared in her chest.  "Yes, that's all I want."

"Do you have the details?"  As she read them from the rental agreement, Joyce heard him scribble them down before adding, "I can't make you any promises, but if you hang on for a second, I'll see if anything pops up right away."

"Thanks, John."

Billy Ray came back on the line, crooning about some storm in the heartland, but her spirits were so much higher that the thought of listening to the country singer's greatest hits for the next ten minutes didn't even faze Joyce. 

Fifteen minutes was another story.  She had to resort to putting the phone on speaker and doing some paperwork at her gallery desk while she waited for John to return.

"You still there, Joyce?"

She snatched up the phone, almost dropping the acquisitions request she'd been looking over.  "Right here," she replied.  Only then did she realize he'd called her by her first name and not by Ms. Summers.  Did that mean…?

"…not sure if this is what you want to hear," he was saying, "but that car turned up in an accident up north of here.  They found it the morning after that storm hit."

An accident.  But Rupert was all right or he wouldn't have called.  What did that mean for Buffy?

"Does it say where they took my daughter?"

"Well, that's just it.  There wasn't anybody in the car when they found it."

"What?"

"It was empty.  They found blood in the passenger seat, and some bleached white hair strands in the back where it looked like someone might have hit their head, but other than that, the car was stripped bare.  Sorry, Joyce."

After getting the location where the car had been found, Joyce thanked the officer and hung up the phone, the weight settling inside her chest as she mulled over the latest information.  Rupert hadn't sounded injured when she'd spoken to him, though obviously he'd meant for her to find out about the car accident, or he wouldn't have bothered contacting her.

Buffy.  It all came back to Buffy.  She wasn't with Rupert.  She wasn't in the car.

But then…

Neither was Spike.

It was a good thing it was two days before Christmas.  Joyce wouldn't have to take any extra time off from the gallery when she drove up to where the accident was to figure out what happened.

-----

He didn't want to wake up.

Not when the dream was as luscious as this.

_Outside Rupert's flat.  Past __midnight__.___

_One of those nights where the air was so crisp, it made his mouth water.  Where each pinprick in the black satin above challenged him to find something more pure, more shameless in its beauty, somewhere on the earth below._

_Where Spike was cock of the walk, and the creatures, human and not, bowed to his supremacy._

_He knew without having to be told that he didn't have the chip.  One of those dream facts that came unquestioned as fact.  And he was back for his revenge on those who'd made his impotence most unbearable._

_Starting with Rupert.___

_Knocking at the door elicited a resounding, "Come in already!" from Giles inside.  Spike opened the front entrance and sauntered inside to see the Watcher standing in the galley kitchen, big floral oven mitts on his hands and a steaming Christmas pudding nestled in his grip._

_"Well, don't be a prat and just stand there," Giles scolded.  "Get the brandy."_

_Without thinking, he went straight to the liquor cabinet where the Watcher hid the good stuff, and extracted the bottle of Remy from its depths, pulling off its top as he headed back to the kitchen.  Only then did he notice the apron covering Rupert's suit, the proud "Kiss the librarian" emblazoned across its front in Gothic lettering.  "You better not have mistletoe in here, mate," Spike said as he poured the liquor over the pudding._

_"Oh, no, Buffy has it in the bathroom," Giles replied.  Brushing past the vampire, he carried the dessert to the waiting table, and set it triumphantly down in the middle.  "She's been in there an awful long time, though.  Do make yourself useful and see that she's all right, won't you?"_

_He bristled at being so casually ordered around.  "If you think I'm here for whatever you do-gooders call happy holidays, think again.  The Big Bad is back, and this time---."_

_"Yes, yes, I've heard it all before."  He cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.  "Maim and torture, rivers of blood, screaming for mercy.  Really, Spike.  We go through this every year.  Now, why don't we just skip past all your delusions of self-importance and get straight to the merry-making, shall we?"_

_Spike growled in frustration, taking a menacing step toward Giles, only to come to an abrupt halt when the Watcher pulled out a cook's blow torch and set the Christmas pudding ablaze.  He started to retreat from the flame, but bumped into an unexpected warm body, whirling with fangs bared to see __Willow__ with a huge tray of cookies._

_"Happy Hanukkah!" she exclaimed with a broad smile.  "Want a cookie?  Ease my pain."_

_Spike shook his head.  "Thought you were in the land of cheese, Red."_

_Willow__ shrugged and brushed past him.  "Cheese can't compare to Christmas on the Hellmouth.  Not even muenster, which, you know, sounds a lot like monster, now that I think of it."  She giggled.  "Monster cheese.  I wonder if we'll ever have an apocalypse like that around here."_

_Giles looked up at that point, his eyes widening.  "Are you still here, Spike?" he said.  "I thought I told you to check on Buffy."_

_Revenge would have to wait._

_Or rather, revenge could start at the top.  With the Slayer._

_With a gleam in his eye, Spike stalked down the hall for the bathroom, hesitating before the closed door.  An overwhelming urge to knock first actually made him lift his hand in preparation, but the vampire caught himself just in time, shaking his head at his momentary lapse._

_"Slay-er!" he called out as he pushed the door open.  "I'm home!"_

_The entire ceiling was a sea of green, elliptical leaves spreading like fountain water to hide the sterile décor.  But the shoots went ignored, the significance of standing beneath their canopy lost as Spike gaped at the sight before him._

_In the bathtub, with shackles running from her wrists to her ankles, a naked Buffy blinked up at him, green eyes furious, nipples surprisingly hard in the sultry air._

_"Took you long enough," she groused.  "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting in here?"  She held up her chain wrists as high as they would go, exposing her scratched palms.  "And that mistletoe was a bitch to put up.  You just better appreciate it.  Though I'm beginning to think that maybe I just _won't_ give you your Christmas present this year."_

_His cock throbbed inside his jeans at the sight of the heavy black iron against her golden skin.  Maybe torturing the Slayer could wait until after he'd had a spot of fun with her first, he reasoned._

_"Well?" Buffy demanded.  "Aren't you going to unwrap me?"_

_He took a few well-placed steps closer, but stopped before getting within reaching distance.  "That sounds distinctly like an order, pet," he said with a contemplative tilt of his head.  "And to quote my favorite Slayer…me and orders?  Not so mixy."_

_"But…"  A hint of hesitation darted behind her eyes.  "…I thought this was what you wanted."_

_"Since when do you care about what I want?"  He could smell her now, but why the bathroom smelled like pine and peaty smoke, Spike had no idea.  All he knew was that it made him want to bury his face between those powerful thighs of hers and not come out until New Year's._

_"I don't."  She flushed when he cocked his eyebrow, a lovely shade of blood-affirming pink that spread down her neck and riveted his gaze to the upper swell of her breast.  "Well, I didn't.  If that's changed now, it's completely your fault."_

_"Is that so?"_

_"You're the one who went and saved me.  I wouldn't be in this tub now if it wasn't for you."_

_She had him there, but damned if he was going to let the bitch see him falter._

_Crossing him arms across his chest, Spike deliberately stood there with his feet planted firmly apart, proudly displaying his erection within his jeans for her to ogle.  "Tell me what's in it for me if I let you go," he said._

_"You get what you've always wanted," Buffy replied._

_"Yeah?__  What's that?"_

_"Me."_

_"Want you dead, luv.  That's the name of the game, remember?"_

_Her lips curved into a deadly smile, and she stretched back into the tub, resting her hands at her waist so that her top half was completely bared to his view.  "But don't you think I'm much more interesting alive?" she taunted.  "All bare, and tender, and exposed?  All this blood, just…pump-ing away…."_

_Her calculated attempts to provoke a reaction in him succeeded, driving Spike closer to the side of the tub.  When he glanced down and saw where the chains had rubbed the skin raw around her ankles, however, his mood faded, his brows knitting together as he automatically dropped to his knees in order to reach her feet._

_"What've you done?" he asked, using the key he found on the floor to unlock the shackles.  His thumb caressed the reddened patches, soothing the abrasions before continuing up the chain to unfetter those at her wrists.  Spike's eyes sought hers.  "Is it that hard to take care of yourself, pet?"_

_"I'm too busy taking care of everyone else.  And it's not that bad---."_

_He caught her hand before she could hide the corresponding marks there.  "Let me be the judge of that," he said.  Gently, he turned her palms upward, letting his cool fingers trace over the spidery lines left by the foliage she'd placed above them.  _

_"So…not into the bondage, huh?"__ Buffy joked, trying desperately---too desperately---to divert him from his scrutiny of her injuries.  "And here I thought I had you pegged."_

_"Time and place," he muttered.  Slowly, Spike bent his head, lowering his lips to her left hand and brushing them over the array of cuts._

_The sound of her accelerating heartbeat filled the room, pounding with a rush in his ears as the faint scent of blood wafted from the scratches.  He felt her shudder as his tongue darted out to taste the salt of her skin, and heard her sharp intake of breath when he sucked at the fleshy pad below her thumb._

_"What're you doing?" she whispered._

_He knew she wanted to pull back her hand and slug him a good one---after all, turning into a courting swain when she'd obviously been in the mood for the renegade highwayman would not score him many marks in Buffy's good books---but he held her firm, tugging her forward so that her bare breasts pressed into his chest._

_"It's all about us bein' equals, isn't it?" he asked.  "That was your word."_

_"But…I'm in the tub.  And I have chains.  That looks pretty equal to me."_

_The swell of her bottom lip beckoned, and Spike ducked down to capture it between his teeth.  "'Cept…" he said between nibbles, "…maybe that's…not good enough…"_

_Somewhere in the background, he heard glass shatter, followed by Giles' muffled cursing.  Buffy broke away from the kiss, and looked over Spike's shoulder.  "What was that?" she asked._

_His mouth dropped to the line of her now-exposed neck.  "Don't care," he muttered against her skin.  She tasted sublime, and he could practically feel the blood coursing in her veins through the brief contact of his lips.  Hot, and pounding, and succulence personified---._

_Another crash, this time louder, and this time there was no denying the pull it had on his limbs as Buffy faded away from beneath him…_

-----

…and his eyes opened to stare up at the wooden ceiling, the distinct sound of an annoyed Buffy on the level below.  She was sweeping something up, and the musical tint of glass against glass told Spike she must've broken something for real.

Probably bleedin' to death and too daft not to even realize it, he thought in annoyance.  Pushing back the blanket, he grabbed his jeans from the foot of the bed and slipped them on, arranging his ebbing erection to be as unnoticeable as possible before he climbed down the ladder.

He'd forgotten all about the kid until he'd dropped to the lower floor and spied Holly sitting at the table, Baby tight in her grip.  "G'morning, Spike," she chirped.

A blonde head perked up from the opposite side of the table at the mention of his name.  "Thank god you're up," Buffy said, straightening.  In her hand was the dustpan filled with shards of one of their drinking glasses, stains of an orange fluid still clinging to its hazardous corners. 

His body told him the hour was approaching noon, and he frowned as he glanced at the bowl sitting in front of Holly.  "Little late for breakfast, isn't it?" he quizzed, strolling to the refrigerator.

Buffy lifted her brow at the packet of blood he took out.  "If you'd been up with the rest of us, you'd know that's exactly what we've been trying to do all morning."

"So feed the little nipper.  What's so hard about that?"

"Well, let's see."  She ticked them off on her fingers as she spoke.  "So far, we've established that Holly doesn't eat anything red or orange, nothing that's hard or crunchy---."

"It makes noise," the child offered, as if that would explain it.

Buffy sighed.  "And nothing with the letter 'b' in it, for some reason known only to Holly and God."

"She's _three_, luv.  How does she---?"

"Do I _look_ like a child psychologist, Spike?"  She looked frazzled, that's what she looked like.  "All I know is that I offered her the Weetabix---."

"There's Weetabix?  How'd I miss that?"

"---and she turned it down because of the 'b' thing.  So, we're currently letting the Cheerios get soggy so that _one_ of us can get something to eat.  Aren't we, Holly?"

The little girl nodded.  "Buffy says Slayers don't need to eat so much.  That's why she hasn't eaten yet."

"Oh, she did, did she?"  Setting down the pan he'd retrieved to warm his blood, Spike turned toward Buffy and firmly took the dustpan from her grip.  One look at the hair falling across her cheek, the tiredness still clouding her eyes, and he'd made up his mind.

"Go take a shower," he said in a low voice.  "Relax.  Not eating and not sleeping's not exactly the best way to get back up to full strength, now is it, pet?"

Though gratitude made the corner of her mouth lift, Buffy's gaze slid guiltily to Holly behind them.  "I can't just leave her alone out here," she said.

"And bein' with me means bein' alone?"  But his tone was teasing, a glimmer of amusement deep within the blue.  Gently, he gave her a little push toward the bathroom.  "The munchkin and I will be just fine while you freshen yourself up.  All she's goin' to do is eat, right?"

"Right."  She smiled, and though it looked like she was going to say something more, Buffy remained silent as she disappeared to the adjoining room.

"So," Spike said to Holly, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the counter, "what's this about you not eating Weetabix?  Sounds like you and me need to have a little chat about fine English traditions, moptop."

To be continued in Chapter 18: 'Tis the Season to be Jolly…


	18. Tis the Season to be Jolly

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Joyce has learned about the car accident, Giles has learned about some cryptic references to the ritual Maria's interested in, and Spike has been left watching Holly at breakfast after shooing Buffy off to take a bath…

-----

She fell asleep in the bathtub.  It wasn't expected, and it certainly didn't rate high on the smart things to do, but the moment the bath salts hit the hot water, the scent of aloe vera tangling with the steam in silky tendrils that wrapped around her skin as she sank beneath the surface, Buffy's battle against the Sandman was officially lost.  With her arms stretched out across the top of the ceramic rim, her toes playing with the chain hooking the plug to the faucet, her eyes fluttered closed almost immediately, blocking out the too-white interior of the bathroom and calling up the last thing she knew she should be dreaming about.

_"Slayer has a tub fetish.  Got it."_

_He stood in the doorway---no, make that leaned in the doorway; the vamp had a body that was ordained for epicurean posing---a well-muscled shoulder against the jamb, eyes uncharacteristically black as his tee and jeans.  The steam was wreaking havoc with his hair, creating a riot of curls, but otherwise, Spike seemed his usual, unflappable self, waiting for…something.  As per the usual, Buffy had no idea what._

_"Since when is wanting to be clean considered a fetish?" she snapped back.  Defensively, she scooped some of the mountainous bubbles into her arms, drawing them slowly back so that it more effectively curtained her breasts from his view, but then flushed when his eyes drifted to the length of her legs, now visible through the watery patina, rainbowed in the translucent yellows and greens of the soap._

_"Since you take a piece of wood into the water with you.__  And not the sort that makes this fun for the both of us, I might add."  _

_His reply directed her attention to the stake floating between her breasts, its tip pressed lightly against her sternum by some invisible hand.  When she reached to grab hold of it, however, Buffy was stopped by a flash of ivory, and looked up to see Spike crouching at the tub's side, the weapon dancing between his fingers._

_"Afraid of a vamp gettin' a gander of the goodies?" he taunted._

_"Of course not."__  She held out her hand.  "Now, give it back."_

_A flick of his wrist sent the stake clattering to the tiled floor behind him.  "Like you better without it."_

_"I like you better with it."_

_His bottom lip jutted in a mock pout.  "And here I thought we'd reached an understanding, luv," Spike said.  "I'm wounded."_

_"Not yet, you aren't."_

_She was tensed to leap over him to retrieve her stake when strong arms slithered around her sides, pulling her from the slippery bubbles to trap her against his chest.  "I said," he rumbled, and he tightened his grip when his fingers threatened to slide free of her skin, "I like you better this way."_

_Instinct was demanding she fight back, rearing its logical head and screaming, "Bad Spike!  Bad Vampire!" at the top of its lungs._

_Instinct had saved her ass on more than one occasion, especially with this particular demon, so listening to it instead of doing her best wriggly worm impersonation should've been her first priority.  She needed to get free of his clutches and stake him before things got worse._

_She didn't, though._

_Because this time…instinct was wrong._

_Only the friction of the cotton kept her from slipping away, her skin an oily sheath refusing Spike the luxury of a firm grip.  As her breasts flattened against him, Buffy balled the fabric of his tee in her hands as an anchor, and slid the rest of the way out of the tub to land in his lap._

_"Why do I have to be the naked one?" she murmured.  Her body felt like it was vibrating from the power of her pulse, and she'd never been so glad that Spike's heart didn't beat at all.  Whether he knew it or not, he was anchoring her from flying free of her skin; she just wondered if that was what Spike really wanted._

_She shivered when the rough rasp of his jeans brushed against her sex, instinctively parting her legs to wrap them about his waist.  Spike's head ducked so that he could run blunt teeth along her neck, and when he lifted his gaze back up to meet hers, golden eyes had replaced the blue._

_"'Cause you've already seen me in all my glory," he said in response to her query._

_Exploratory fingers released their hold to roam over the landscape of his brow, dipping in the valley of his scar before trailing down to his fangs.  "Why didn't you take the deal?" Buffy asked quietly.  The fleshy pad of her index finger caught on the incisor's tip, a crimson bead welling to the surface, and she gasped when Spike sucked the digit into his mouth.  "You hate my friends, you hate Sunnydale.   You shouldn't care what happens when we go back."_

_His tongue curled around her finger as he slid his mouth back up its length.  "Don't hate _you_," Spike murmured._

_"You used to."_

_"And you used to hate me.  Figure that makes us even."_

_"Partners."___

_"Your word."___

_"Don't you like it?"_

_He didn't reply, just bent his head back down to suck at her neck._

_She could feel his teeth hovering above her skin, his constraint to not bite making his body tremble against hers.  Each powerful pull hooked slick talons deep into her gut, making her clit tingle, and she moaned in spite of her promise to stay resolute._

_"Aren't you afraid?"  His voice was barely a breath._

_Buffy's eyes shot open, but he hadn't pulled back from the hollow in her throat.  "You won't bite me," she said, with more confidence than she felt.  _

_"Oh?  And why's that?"_

_It was her turn to whisper.  "I don't know."_

_His lips left her neck, his pointed tongue marking a trail back up to her jaw.  Gone was his vampire visage, and he gazed at her with eyes made dark with hidden understanding.  "Yes, you do, Slayer…"_

-----

"Slayer!"

The sharp cry startled her from her rest, making her sit up in the cooling water with a splash that sent droplets splattering over the tub's rim.  Her toe caught on the silver plug chain, yanking it from its mooring, and she scowled as she reached down to try and fit it back into place before too much of her bath emptied out.

"Slayer!"  Pounding on the door accompanied Spike's much louder second call, and this time, she could hear the muffled giggles underlying his very vocal peevishness.

"What?" she barked back, irritation sending her good mood scattering.  "Kind of wet here, Spike!"

She shrank back into the tub when the door was flung open, arms automatically going to cover her breasts, but her exasperation vanished almost the moment Spike appeared in the entrance.

He looked as he always did---black jeans, form-fitting tee, heavy boots that made his feet look obscenely big---but it was a new accessory that had turned his normal dour expression into a contortion of furious proportions.  Clinging to his back, with thin arms wrapped around his neck for security and knees squeezing tight into his sides, was Holly.  Her face was buried between his shoulder blades, her body shaking from the giggles that were erupting from her chest.  Spike was doing nothing to help keep her in position; in fact, his hands were balled into fists at his sides as he glowered at the wet Slayer in the tub.

"Get.  It.  Off," he growled, eyes flashing.

Buffy had to bite her lip not to join Holly in her laughter.  "_It_ is a little girl, Spike," she said.  "And since when can't you get a little girl off your back?"

"Since I've already set this bleedin' chip off once gettin' her off the _first_ time she decided I was some sort of climbing frame.  Fuckin' bint clambered back on when I was on my knees from the pain."

A sharp inhalation cut off Holly's giggles, and she pulled her face back to twist around and stare with saucer eyes at Spike.  "You said a bad word," she whispered loudly.

He snorted, his head swiveling to glare at the child in spite of the still-tight squeeze she had on his neck.  "Yeah, well, I'll be sayin' a whole lotta bloody bad words if you don't start minding what I say, you godda---."

"Spike!"

"What?"

Her sharp tone had two sets of eyes staring at her---one innocent, one definitely not-so-innocent---and Buffy put on her best can't-we-be-grown-ups face as she reached for the towel at the side of the tub.

"Go back to the other room while I get dressed," she instructed.  "We'll…figure it out from there."

Her statement seemed to bring the realization home for Holly for the first time since coming into the bathroom.  "Buffy doesn't have any clothes on," she commented, her mouth conspiratorially close to Spike's ear.

In spite of his ill-temper, the vampire relaxed.  "Yeah," he said.  His gaze devoured the tawny shine of the Slayer's shoulders before slipping to the upper swell of her breasts, and she flushed when he deliberately ran the tip of his tongue along the edges of his teeth.  "Kind of noticed that."

"Well, you can un-notice it," Buffy said.  "Especially from far, far away."

"Sure you don't want a little help, pet?"

"Oh!  Oh!  I can help!  I wanna help!"  The prospect of pitching in on something Spike was obviously interested in doing was enough for Holly to slacken her hold on his neck, sliding sure-footedly to the tiled floor and scurrying to fetch the clothes Buffy had set by the sink.  Before either adult could stop her, she'd closed the distance to the tub and thrust the clothing over the ceramic rim, standing back with a proud smile as they sank below the water's surface.

Spike's guffaw was enough to short the rest of the Slayer's temper.

"Out!" she shouted, pointing to the door.  "Buffy bathes by herself!"

Holly's beaming face crumpled at the unexpected explosion, her eyes dissolving into enormous teary pools.  Silently, she backed away from the tub, and when she hit Spike's leg, she whirled to bury her sobs in the black denim.

The vampire rolled his eyes.  "Good job, luv," he remarked.  With a shake of his head, he bent and scooped the child into his arms, grimacing when she wiped a snuffly nose on his t-shirt before clinging tightly to his neck.  Buffy watched in growing horror as he began rubbing Holly's back.

"C'mon, moptop," he crooned, the softness in his tone almost as warm as the steam that filled the room.  "Let's get away from the big, bad Slayer.  You don't want to be around her anyway.  I hear tell that bein' a bitch is catching and we don't want that, do we?"

Holly pulled away long enough to gaze at him in wet solemnity.  "That's a bad word, too."

"Yeah."  The look he shot Buffy made her shrink further into the water.  "That, it is."

-----

By the time she emerged with a towel wrapped snugly around her, Buffy felt like the Wicked Witch of the West.  _She's just a kid_, she scolded herself as she stepped from humid air of the bath into the cooler air of the living room.  _She was just trying to help.  Now she thinks Spike is the good guy, and how warped is that?_

Her gaze fell on the child sitting at the dining table, hands cradling a steaming mug in front of her as she solemnly watched Spike pour a blood bag into a waiting pan.

"Does it taste good?" Holly was asking.

"Like bloody heaven," Spike replied.

The little girl giggled.  "You made a funny."

"He made something, all right," Buffy said wryly, approaching the duo.  Inwardly, she cringed when the good humor disappeared from Holly's face and the child ducked her eyes to stare into her cup, but continued to force the smile when she bent over to see what she was drinking.

"Hot chocolate?" Buffy said in amazement.  There were even tiny marshmallows floating in it, reminiscent of her mother's recipe.

"Spike made it," Holly said in a tiny voice.

"Meet with your approval, Slayer?"

She ignored the mocking disdain in his tone, and instead sat down next to the girl.  "Look," she said, as gently as she could manage, "about what happened in the bathroom.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to be so…loud."

Spike's snort made Buffy stiffen, but the smallest of nods from Holly encouraged her to continue.

"Now, I appreciate that you wanted to help.  I really do.  But, I had the door closed for a reason.  See, when grown-ups have doors closed, that means we want some alone time, and it's not polite to just walk in on someone.  So that's why I was a little crabby, OK?  Because I just wanted to finish my bath on my own."

Another nod was followed by a sideways glance at the vampire, still busy at the stove.  "But Spike's the one who opened the door."

"I know, but Spike made a mistake.  And Spike knows that.  Doesn't Spike?"

Both females turned in expectation towards the black-clad back.  After a long moment where the only sound in the room was the spoon brushing against the side of the pan, Buffy repeated, this time a little more firmly, "_Doesn't_ Spike?"

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, though the force with which he poured the blood into his waiting mug belied his acceptance.  "Spike knows that, and a helluva lot more."

There were volumes unspoken by his words, and though the urge to demand what exactly he was talking about swelled inside Buffy, she let it go, sighing in resignation as she rose to her feet.  "I'm going to go get dressed now, and when I come back out, we'll play a game or something, OK?"

"OK."

Convincing, it was not, but considering the mood she'd created with her little outburst, Buffy realized that this was as good as it was going to get for now.  _And I thought hanging around with Spike for two weeks was going to be bad.  How am I not going to break this kid before New Year's comes around?_

-----

Holly watched Buffy as she disappeared into the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind her.  Doyle had warned her about behaving herself while she was at the cabin, and she was sad that she'd already made things bad in the small house by getting the Slayer mad at her.  Spike wasn't happy any more, too, though he hadn't been happy when they'd been playing piggyback either.  He'd seemed to cheer up a bit in the bathroom, but now he was back to grumping around the kitchen, slamming the pan into the sink while muttering under his breath.

"Sorry, Spike," Holly said quietly.

"Sorry 'bout what, moptop?" he asked distractedly.

"I got you in trouble, too."

His brows were dark and tight when he looked at her.  It was his thinking face.  She was starting to recognize that one.  He used it a lot. 

"Not your fault," he replied.  "Slayer's just…wound a little tight."

"Because you're a vampire?"

"Yeah.  Reckon that's part of it."  Sipping at his drink, Spike contemplated her with a steadiness that would have unnerved another child.  For Holly, though, being watched was so ingrained that it was just par for the course.

"What do you know about vampires, pidge?" he finally asked.  "Why is it you're not scared of me?"

"You drink blood."

"And?"

"And sometimes you kill people."

"No sometimes 'bout that.  It's how most of us demons get off."

"Do you like it?"

"Do I like what?"

"Killing people."

"Did.  These days, my killing's a bit limited to the more demonic of the population."

"But you won't kill me."

"Can't.  You're human.  Got the headache to prove it."

"Would you kill me if I wasn't?"

He went silent at that.  Holly was quickly learning that Spike wasn't quiet very often.  It had to be important when he was.

"Drink up," he finally said, gesturing toward her still-full cup.  "Got that recipe special from the Slayer's mum.  It's got my personal guarantee to perk you right up."

She was disappointed he wasn't going to answer her question, but didn't press the issue.  She'd spent all her life around adults who didn't always want to tell her what was going on; she'd long ago understood that it wasn't always a good idea to push them on what they were thinking. 

Sometimes…they got violent.

-----

The glass on the mantle shattered, but rather than the hundreds of splinter-sized shards scattering to the floor, they danced and shimmered in the dim illumination, casting an opulence of rainbows on the shadow-coated walls, before coalescing back into a smooth cylinder.  It was completely devoid of cracks, its shape flawless.  It was impossible to tell that it had just been broken.

And it just wasn't good enough.

Disgusted, Maria blew out the candles at her side, leaving her in pitch black as she took the few sure steps to the light switch on the wall.  Ever since the attack in Canada, her powers had been weakened, the demons the PTB had set upon her wreaking their damage before she could escape.  Then, snatching Rupert Giles had proven a second setback, when the freak snowstorm came from nowhere and forced her to take him at a greater distance than she could comfortably afford.  It was a good thing she had Silas and Paul to tap into.  Without them, she would have no hope in ever getting her hands on Holly.

Now she had the third Watcher, though.  And his unchecked resources made the other two look like mere babes in the woods.

Deluding him had been remarkably simple, though his reluctance to participate had been unfortunate.  The worst of that seemed to be past, though, as her staff informed her that he'd been hard at work for most of the night.  Even Silas and Paul were of the opinion that Rupert had finally come around to their way of thinking.

The only aspect that gave her pause was his concern over his Slayer.  There should have been no one with him, and the fact that he'd so casually included her in his weekend raised more questions than made Maria comfortable.  Was he intending to use the time as a training exercise?  Most of the evidence seemed to point to that conclusion, especially since he was so eager to assure the Slayer's mother of her safety.  That meant the mother knew of her daughter's whereabouts, and Maria highly doubted a grown woman would condone her teenaged progeny to travel hundreds of miles with a man old enough to be her father.

So what exactly had happened to Buffy Summers?

It was not a question she could afford to spend too much time dwelling on.  New Year's was quickly approaching, and with it, her deadline to usurp the power she'd longed for, for the last forty years.  It was possible that there might be other children with the same capabilities of satisfying the ritual's sacrifice, but by the time she found them, Maria was certain it would prove too late for her to truly benefit.  She was already in her early fifties; of what value was immortality if she had to live it out as an old woman?

Gathering together the last vestiges of her tools, she quickly returned them to their hiding place in the stone surround of the fireplace.  She had nine days left to get her powers back to a strong enough capacity to handle the sacrifice; it would likely take constant iteration in order to reach the proper balance.  In the meantime, she had every plan to celebrate the holiday in a manner befitting the gracious hostess she was mimicking. 

After all, Christmas was the most wonderful time of the year.

To be continued in Chapter 19: I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus…


	19. I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy's first encounter with Holly is less than stellar, when the child and Spike interrupt her bath, but she is determined to make the most of it…

-----

She tried.

Honest. Swear on a stack of dead demons---because a stack of dead vampires would just be a big ol' pile of dust if she used that analogy, and how effective would that be?---and cross her heart, Buffy gave it her Chosen best.

It just didn't…turn out like she'd hoped.

Freshly dressed and ready to be the best darn babysitter Holly had ever had, Buffy had reached her first stumbling block when a recon of the tiny cabin had uncovered exactly zero games as she had promised, leaving her scrambling to come up with another idea that would both amuse the child and get Buffy back into her good graces all at the same time. So, when the idea of jewelry making had popped into her brain, Buffy'd thought it was an excellent idea. After all, what little girl didn't like to play dress-up? She had the macaroni and thread left over from making the Christmas ornaments, and it wasn't like making necklaces was really all that difficult. No more difficult than anything else had been since she'd arrived at the cabin, at least.

She just forgot to mention that the uncooked macaroni was for playing, not for eating. An easy mistake, though not necessarily a safe one. But, to make it even worse, when Buffy had moved to use the Heimlich to dislodge the dried pasta from a choking Holly's throat, Spike had yanked her away with a growl, saying, "She's just a babe, Slayer. Do that, and you'll break her ribs."

Afterward, a wide-eyed Holly sat perched on the vampire's lap sipping at a glass of water, leaving Buffy to watch in growing dismay when her every attempt to approach the little girl was met with a flinch, distrust gleaming in her gaze. Spike didn't look that happy, either, but Buffy didn't know if it was disapproval at not knowing how to take care of a kid or anger at being saddled with the bulk of the responsibility that aroused his surly attitude. Either way, she still ended up being the odd Slayer out.

Reading seemed perfectly innocuous after the macaroni incident. There was even that book of fairy tales that Spike had thrown at her the other day; it looked to be the perfect entertainment for a three-soon-to-be-four year old.

In hindsight, she just should've picked a different story than "Goldilocks and the Three Bears." How could Buffy have predicted that Holly would draw upon the parallels to their own situation and start asking questions about when the bears were going to come back to the snowbound cabin, and would they be angry to find Buffy and Spike sleeping in their beds when they did, and didn't bears like to eat little girls?

It took them ten minutes to talk her out of the bathroom she'd gone running to when Buffy tried explaining that the bears wouldn't be able to open the doors of the cabin anyway because of their clawed paws, and were much more likely to smash through the windows instead, and besides, Spike was way scarier than any ol' bear.

Mary Poppins, she wasn't.

When Holly's head tipped forward into the half-eaten plate of mashed potatoes, Spike was the one who scooped her up to carry her into the bedroom, tiny white clumps of food clinging to the ends of her hair. Buffy couldn't even bring herself to step forward and say anything about cleaning the little girl up before putting her to bed; with the way her day had been going, she'd probably end up getting soap in the kid's eye or drowning her with a washcloth.

Twenty minutes later when Spike finally emerged from the bedroom, he found the Slayer sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, throwing ragged bits of twig into the flames and watching the fire sporadically jump from the fresh fodder. "I suck," Buffy muttered without turning around.

"You're just tryin' too hard," he said. The couch squeaked as he collapsed into its corner, and she heard the slide of his boots across the floor as he began to take them off. "Though if you want to make the sucking a tad more literal, I wouldn't be one to argue with you."

She didn't have the energy to rise to his bait. "You know all my worries that we're going to kill each other before we get out of this place?" she asked. "I was wrong. I'm going to kill _Holly_. I'm the worst babysitter in the world."

"Not the worst, I'd wager. Think Dru could give you a race for that particular title. As much as she loved to dress 'em up, she just didn't have the attention span to see it through. Most of the time, it was up to me to finish 'em off before someone cottoned on to what Dru was doin'."

The obvious affection in his tone drove Buffy to flash him a dirty look over her shoulder. "Feeling _so_ much better now, Spike," she said dryly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

He shrugged. "I'm just sayin'---."

"I heard what you were saying. And you can _stop_ saying it, any minute now." Turning back to the fire, she inched further, her knees nearing the swelter until her cheeks began to tingle from the exposure. It wasn't often she felt like such a complete failure, but finding anything good that had occurred with her interactions with Holly was impossible. She was a menace to children everywhere. _I am Buffy. See me slay the helpless little girl with my own stupidity._

She jerked when strong hands settled on her shoulders.

"Relax," Spike said, forcing her to still with merely a firm application against her arms.

He'd moved from the couch and now crouched directly behind Buffy, his scent merging with the sulphur from the fire to tickle her nose with anticipation. Though her body was tense, she didn't flee from his touch, and they posed there before the flames for a long moment before one of them finally spoke.

"What're you doing?" Buffy asked softly. There had been no opportunities during the day to address the topic of the previous night, a fact she wasn't sure left her relieved or disappointed. The way things had been left…it was anyone's guess what the next move was going to be.

"Makin' sure you don't explode," he replied.

Supple fingers began to slowly knead the knots of her shoulders, smoothing the tension they found with an infinite pressure that transformed her muscles to molasses. Buffy's head fell forward of its own accord, the groan that escaped her throat a testament to both the pain and pleasure his massage was soliciting, and she felt his hands pause before he pressed lightly into her back.

"Tell me to stop," Spike murmured in her ear.

Was it a dare? A request? Buffy didn't know. All she knew was that it felt magnificent, better than any of Giles' or Xander's attempts at a post-battle rubdown, strong and firm in ways they couldn't emulate.

And she wanted more.

Easing back away from the flame, Buffy pushed at Spike's bent knees, prodding them apart so that she could slide between them, and nestled herself in the vee they created. When she stretched her legs out in front of her, it took only a moment for Spike to mimic the motion, his thighs ghosting along hers, his chest just a breath from her back. She could feel the hesitation that caged his hands, but rather than coax him with words she knew would fail her, Buffy simply reached up to pull her hair over one shoulder, exposing the slim line of her neck before it disappeared beneath her top.

He needed no further encouragement. Resuming his massage, Spike worked over each muscle until its supplication was inevitable, yielding to his firm grip with an ache that left Buffy quivering for more. Sighs of pleasure dragged her from the malaise that had held her hostage before his touch, and with each release, she felt herself sinking into a velvety cocoon where the only things that mattered were Spike's hands.

"Holly likes you," she murmured in the midst of his manipulation. "Why is that?"

"Dunno," came his equally hushed reply. "Not like I encouraged her or anything."

"And you're so good with her." This was probably the worst of what ate at Buffy. It wasn't so much that she sucked at looking after the little girl; it was that Spike was so much better. "You always seem to know what's going to shut her up, or what's going to make her feel better. How weird is that?"

"Not that weird. Did you forget I looked after Dru for a hundred years? It's not that different, if you think about it."

She tensed beneath his hands. "Can we _not_ bring up any of our exes tonight?" Buffy asked.

"There something else you'd rather be bringin' up?"

It was impossible not to smile at the not-so-subtle predictability of his response, and Buffy was glad she faced away from him so that he couldn't see her do it. "I mean it," she said. "Every time you start talking about Vampirella Interrupted, it makes me want to…"

Finishing that sentence was going to lead to badness, though Buffy wasn't even sure why she'd started it in the first place. But Spike didn't call her on it, instead offering, "Yeah. Hearing 'bout you and Angel makes me want to, too."

His hands slid down to her biceps, continuing his massage along her arms. Each stroke brushed his fingertips along the sides of her breasts, and Buffy felt her body responding to the erotic feathering with a tight tingle that began nowhere near her torso. Could it be deliberate on his part? she wondered. She had no idea because not once did his hands stray from their task, rubbing and kneading with a deliberate leisure just as if she'd asked him for this. Better to just enjoy the massage for what it was, she decided.

Buffy's breath caught when she felt the faintest pressure at her nape, accompanied by a tiny nip where her shoulder curved into her neck. "Been wanting to do this all day," she heard Spike murmur into her skin. His hands slid down the length of her arms, molding around her limbs as his fingers laced through hers, guiding them down until her palms rested atop his denim-clad thighs.

"What…what're you doing?" It was probably the stupidest question ever asked, but anything more coherent escaped Buffy's means as she felt his muscles trembling through the fabric.

"Thought we could discuss that little compromise you suggested," Spike said. The tip of his tongue was tracing the outer curve of her ear, and Buffy's eyes fluttered closed as goosebumps erupted along her arms.

"This doesn't…feel like…talking," she managed.

"You want me to stop?" Their entwined left hands were dragged backward, her arm bowing as he slid it between their bodies, down…down…down, to settle between their pelvises. She jumped as the length of his erection straining through his jeans pressed into her palm, but instinctively curled her fingers as best she could around it, forcing a groan from Spike's chest that rumbled through her torso when his forehead dropped to her shoulder. "Don't make me stop," he whispered, and the entreaty that coated his words wrapped around Buffy like a desperate hug, drawing her back, and twisting around in his embrace until they were facing each other.

His eyes were black, his skin appearing almost alive as the fire reflected from it, but it was the naked confusion in his gaze that reached into her chest and squeezed, forcing her forward so that her legs were wrapped around his waist, his cock pressing into her barely protected heat. "What do you want?" she asked quietly. It was taking all her control not to throw her arms around him and kiss him until there was no tomorrow, but Buffy held back, knowing with her head if not her heart that if they didn't get the rules out there first, the least of their worries would be going to bed frustrated.

Spike's head tilted as he regarded her, first her face, and then dropping to see the quickening rise and fall of her chest. A single tremulous finger lifted to draw the line between her breasts, but she dismissed the shaking she witnessed as a trick of the fire.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" Spike said when he finally spoke. "I get so bloody furious with you, and I think that…nothin' would be better than to tear you apart with my bare hands and be rid of you, once and for all. And then…I watch you, the way you keep tryin' even when you're so barefaced about not wanting to…the way you don't even know how bewitching you are, all power and polish in this tight little Slayer package…and I start to think that maybe it wouldn't be so bad havin' you 'round after all."

The tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his dry lips, and Buffy found herself riveted by the shiny pink point as it slid slowly across his flesh. "That still doesn't tell me what you want," she said.

"Maybe 'cause I don't rightly know."

"You knew enough to turn me down last night."

His mouth pursed at that, his finger withdrew, and the distance between them lengthened as Spike leaned back onto his hands to gaze at her more directly. "You wanted me to be your dirty little secret," he accused. "You think you would've given it a go if I'd demanded the same from you?"

"But what does it matter? I've never heard you say one nice thing about any of us---."

"It's not about you lot. It's about me. Sooner you get that, the sooner we can get past this and on to what really matters."

"So, you're saying you want me to hold a press conference when we get back to Sunnydale? Is that it?"

"I'm sayin', give me a soddin' choice. You talk partners, but you're so bloody set in bein' the lone gun, you don't know what that means. You barely listen to your Watcher, you boss your friends about---."

"What? I do not!"

"---and I just don't want to get buried in the rubble again, is all." When she began to scramble off his lap, Spike's hands shot out and grabbed her arms, pulling her to topple onto his chest as he laid back on the floor. "Stop runnin'," he growled. "I'm not letting you go until we get this hashed."

It was harder being stretched along his length, the erection that had abated slightly with his arguments returning to poke into her hips. "There's nowhere for me to run to, remember?" Buffy said irritably, though she did nothing to remove herself from his grasp.

"You'll still find a way. You always do."

"So?"

"So maybe I don't want you to go anywhere."

The admission stunned both of them, and Buffy could only stare at him, her mind a tug-of-war on what she should or shouldn't do. "You have to tell me what it's going to take to…you know," she finally said. "I can't say yes or no if I don't know what it is."

His hands loosened, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her inner arm, as he contemplated her question. "Don't think it's so much," Spike said quietly. "Just…maybe…I'd like you not to treat me like…I'm beneath you." The last three words came out in a rush, as if he found it just as impossible to believe he was uttering them, too, while a flicker of what looked like disappointed anguish appeared and vanished just as quickly in his aspect. His lowered lashes blinked once…twice, and then closed, as he added, "Think we could be bloody marvelous together if you'd just give us half a shot, Buffy."

Even without being able to see his eyes, she knew she'd never seen him look more vulnerable than he did at that exact moment. It was tearing him up admitting to such a need---the twitching muscles in his cheeks were testimony to that, as was his inability to meet her gaze when he _never_ had a problem facing her---and the fact that he'd crossed that line when she'd been so reluctant deepened the guilt that Buffy had been cultivating ever since he'd saved her.

Sunnydale, and her friends, and uncomfortable explanations were days away; her life was proof that anything could happen in that time period. Was she worrying too much about how everyone would react if they found out she'd let Spike get closer than fist contact to her? He was a vampire, after all; odds were he'd pull a Parker and treat her like less than nobody again once he got what he wanted.

Except she knew that wasn't really true, or Spike would've just taken her deal in the first place. And he had a point about wanting to be treated with a little bit of respect. He'd earned at least that much with how far he'd gone and how much he'd done in the past few days.

"Would that mean," Buffy asked, "that I wouldn't ever get to be on top?"

She was rewarded by his eyes shooting open, her tease taking him by surprise, but before he could speak, Buffy bent her head and pressed her lips to his, drinking down the cool tang of his mouth in a swift kiss. Immediately, Spike's arms wrapped around her waist, rolling both of them to their sides so that they would each have room to explore, and she tangled her fingers into the hair that curled at the nape of his neck in order to pull him closer.

It lasted not nearly long enough, and left her panting when she finally broke away from the caress. "This doesn't mean I love you or anything," Buffy said, already moving back in to resume the kiss.

"'Course not." He met her halfway, tugging at her bottom lip with his teeth so that she squeaked in protest. "Don't love you, either."

And then their mouths were fused again, a hot tangle of tongues as the last barrier they'd been hiding behind came crashing down. Each slide of his hands over her body, the way he couldn't seem to stay still or find roost in any curve, as if he'd go up in flames if he didn't touch her everywhere all at the same time, capsized the last ounce of control Buffy had, leaving her sinking and floundering for an iota of mastery in the whirlwind of her flesh. Everywhere his hands rested, for that infinitesimal second before disappearing to another inch of her skin, scorched in a throbbing heat that made her yearn to shed the clothes that separated them, the desire to rid him of everything that kept his hard sinew separated from hers rising faster than his erection had.

Without realizing she'd done so, Buffy threw her leg over his hip, drawing him closer so that the hard bulge of his cock pressed into her soaking sex. Spike slid away from her mouth, his tongue tasting the sheen of sweat that had risen to her outermost layer, and she arched away as he traveled down the taut line of her throat.

"Spike…" she hissed. His t-shirt knotted in her hands as they clawed to hold onto him, and she realized she was gulping at the air in a desperate bid to breathe properly. When had her lungs stopped working? Oh, yeah, right about the time he'd done---.

"Yesssss." The sibilance of her pleasure merged with the sizzle of the hearth, and Buffy fell back onto the floor, Spike's mouth where it had latched onto her nipple through her top never breaking from its hold as he followed after her. In spite of the multiple layers of cotton separating her breast from his tongue, she could still feel his teeth as he bit into the hardened bud, crying out from the explosion of bliss that flooded throughout her body.

"Spike?"

They both froze at the muffled sound, necks twisting to stare at the closed bedroom door. Buffy was the first to move when she heard the footsteps scraping over the floorboards, and by the time the door creaked open to reveal a foggy-eyed Holly outlined in the darkness, she had pushed herself up to a sitting position between Spike's legs.

"What's up, pidge?" Buffy hated that his voice was so even when she didn't think she could speak if there were a twelve-foot serpent demon in front of her threatening her life if she didn't. But the tremulous caress of his fingertips at the small of her back betrayed enough of his still-raging desire to counter that indignation.

"I thought I heard something scary." Holly's eyes were wide, her doll clutched tightly in her arms, and she was rocking back and forth on her heels in an effort to calm herself.

"Only scary thing out here is me," Spike teased.

"Hey!" Buffy protested with a smile. "I can be scary, too. Look." Curling her hands into claws, she did the worst impression of a monster that she could muster, so bad that it even drew a reluctant giggle from Holly. Buffy relaxed, pleased with her small measure of success with the child. It was the first right thing that had happened all day.

Spike's finger slipped beneath the waistband of her pants, stroking her skin with a velvet touch that made Buffy shiver.

OK. Second right thing.

"Toddle off back to bed," Spike was saying. At Holly's stricken look, he quickly added, "I'll be there to tuck you in, in two licks."

"Promise?"

"I promise, moptop."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

Buffy expected a snarky comment about how he was already dead, and was surprised when he simply said, "Cross my heart. Now shoo."

After a long moment, Holly nodded her head and backed back into the darkness of the bedroom. Before Buffy could turn to face Spike, however, his mouth was at her ear, whispering dark promises that sent a frisson of anticipation searing down her spine.

"Don't be thinkin' this is over, pet. You and me are just gettin' started here." His tongue darted out for the quickest of licks. "I might suggest you use this little timeout wisely, though. Maybe start practicing how _not_ to scream. Trust me. You're goin' to want to."

And before she could reply, he had disappeared from the room.

To be continued in Chapter 20: Silver and Gold…


	20. Silver and Gold

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: A disastrous first day with Holly left Buffy all disgruntled and tense, so Spike took it upon himself to loosen her up, leading to some talking and resolving about what's going on between them. Before things could get too heated, though, noise from Buffy woke Holly up and interrupted the pair…

-----

He lingered longer than he wanted, every second that ticked by in the bedroom one more second he was away from the waiting Slayer in front of the fireplace. But Holly's eyes weren't budging, fixed on his face in solemn expectation as Spike turned from adjusting the curtains she'd been adamant were letting in too much light.

"Will you tell me a story?" she asked in a tiny voice.

He tilted his head, folding his arms over his chest. "You already got one, moptop. The first time you went to bed."

"I want another."

"And I want this bloody chip outta my head, but we can't have everything, now can we?"

Her gaze flickered to the closed door. "Do you not want Buffy to get mad at you again if you tell me another story?"

"Buffy won't---." Spike grimaced, shaking his head. This wasn't what he signed up for, damn it, and he especially didn't understand why it was the ankle biter had somehow latched onto _him_ as the white hat in this scenario. Well, actually he did. He wasn't the one who'd almost accidentally choked the bint to death by trying too hard to be the pride of the party. _That_ had been interesting to watch, to say the least.

"Look," he said, adopting a gentler tone, "Buffy's just new to this, and she's got this mad notion that she has to be ace at whatever she takes on, so she's tryin' just a tad too hard to please you. It's part of that whole Slayer, save-the-world complex she suffers from. Trust me, I'm workin' on breakin' that, 'cause it's bloody annoying, lemme tell you. But she's not so bad if you give her half a chance. And she only wants the best for you, pidge, so maybe you can cut her some slack."

She seemed to consider his words with a seriousness only a child could muster. "Do you think…maybe, she'll like me as much as she likes you?" she asked.

"What? No, Buffy doesn't…" But he couldn't finish the sentence, shock at the blunt declaration dissipating in light of the events Holly had interrupted. Buffy'd never said anything to him specifically, but it wasn't in her nature to get involved with someone on a whim spurred purely by physical attraction. Everything Spike had ever witnessed---even that Parker git in the beginning---had been about _liking_ the bloke. And she'd been a bit less vociferous in her denunciations of him in the past few days. Maybe she _did_ have at least an inkling in that direction.

"She'll like you more," Spike finally said. Better to not consider those kind of thoughts just now. They could be mood-breakers for the sex he had in mind once he was able to blow this room. "You're not a vamp."

For some reason, this made Holly giggle, and she burrowed down deeper beneath the blankets. She looked impossibly small in the giant bed, her eyes intolerably huge---rather like those soddin' Precious Moments dolls even Dru said were the devil's work---but the way she gazed up at Spike was something he hadn't seen since before he'd set about to cure his dark princess.

Adoration. Trust. Pure. Simple.

With a heavy sigh, Spike sat on the edge of the bed. "So. What kind of a story do you want?"

-----

The living room was silent when he finally emerged from storyteller hour, and Spike's first instinct was that the Slayer had fallen asleep on him. Would she take kindly to being woken? he wondered, as he closed the door behind him. A smile curled his lips. Just have to make the waking up worth it, he decided.

But the room was empty when he turned to survey it, the flames a steady dance in the hearth revealing the empty expanse of floor. The couch was likewise deserted, but a quick glanced showed Buffy's shoes still resting haphazardly next to the front door, so that ruled out a venture into the great white way. Even the bathroom was dark through the crack its egress still allowed.

His head cocked as he listened.

Two heartbeats oscillated in the warm cabin air, the fainter of the two coming from directly behind him. The other, a quick calypso that resonated with a familiarity against his skin, made him smile, and slowly, Spike's eyes slid to the ladder leading to the loft.

_Slayer wants to play_.

Maintaining a stealth that had served him well over the years, Spike closed the distance to the bottommost rung, testing for creaks with his weight. Her scent was stronger here, and unconsciously, he leaned into the wood, inhaling the aroma that seemed stronger on one of the middle steps. She'd stopped there, he realized. Most likely either sat on the rung or leaned against it, probably to contemplate just what in hell she was doing voluntarily going to his bed.

Didn't matter, really. Buffy's desire still coated the wood as strongly as if Spike had his face buried between her thighs.

The arousal that had abated with Holly's story returned with a throbbing vengeance, eliciting a low growl deep within Spike's chest. With measured steps, he climbed the remaining rungs, stepping to the floor above with a determination that had dissipated in the child's wake.

Only the faint glow from the fire below illuminated the space, but Spike didn't need any more light to see Buffy sitting up nervously at the head of the bed. She was still dressed---a mixed blessing; as much as he would've loved to see a naked Slayer package waiting for him with open legs, it was going to be just as much, if not more, fun unwrapping her himself---and for some inexplicable reason, had made the bed before climbing atop it. A brief moment of panic overwhelmed him when he remembered the journal he'd stuffed beneath the mattress, but the nervous chewing of Buffy's lip was all the reassurance he needed that she'd gone nowhere near it.

"Took you long enough," she said. "I was beginning to think…"

When she clamped her mouth shut, Spike frowned. "Beginning to think what?" he prompted.

"Nothing."

"It's not nothin'." He paused as the realization sunk in. "You thought I was just playin' with you?"

The guilt that flashed behind her eyes was the only reply he needed. Leaning forward onto his knuckles, Spike's weight bowed the end of the bed as he began to crawl up its length toward her, head lowered so that he could watch her through his lashes.

"Playin's what I had in mind," he said, his voice a rumble. "Just more of the full body contact sort. Think we'll both enjoy that a tad more."

He stopped when he reached her hips. His mouth was watering from the sheer ambrosia that met his nostrils, and before he could stop himself, Spike bent his head and sank his teeth into the soft junction of Buffy's thigh.

Even through the fabric of her pants, the sharp contact made her arch away from the mattress, her hand going automatically to his head to coil through his curls. To her credit, she didn't make a sound, and when Spike lifted his chin to gauge Buffy's response, he was met with her decisive gaze.

"Is Holly asleep?" she murmured. When he nodded, she slid her bottom down along the mattress until their pelvises whispered against each other, their eyes now level. "So, if I want this to last longer than Xander's attention span at a research party, I've gotta be quiet, huh?"

"As a mouse, luv. And, if you know what's good for you, don't be mentioning the boy again. He's a bit of a spoiler for the mood, don't you think?"

She didn't speak, only nodded in agreement before craning her neck to press her lips to his. A feather caress, her breath was hot and sweet as her mouth skated over his, and though it wasn't nearly as demanding as their kisses had been down in front of the fireplace, it left Spike trembling with desire when she fell back onto the pillow.

"Want to see you," Spike rasped as he swooped to taste the hollow of her throat. But when her hands came up to do undo her pants, he pushed them aside, locking her wrist in his grip for a steady second as he said, "_My_ job."

Almost automatically, Buffy's arms fell lax at her sides, her eyes luminous when he sat up to see her. For a moment, Spike's throat constricted, the power of her beauty a tangible force that threatened to crush him, but he quickly hid his weakness with a smirk, reaching out to rest a hand on her flat abdomen.

Her muscles were tense beneath his fingers, the heat seeping through her clothing to leech into his flesh. There was a bare inch where her top rode up, exposing her golden skin, and slowly, Spike stroked what he could see, his thumb dipping beneath her waistband with a bandit's guile before resuming a silken path to the side of her waist.

"Have to admit," he said softly, lifting his other hand to deftly slide down the zipper, "didn't fancy you'd be quite so open to this." His palms spread to slide down the top of her thighs as he pulled the trousers down her legs, guiding her knees to part when they were free from the fabric.

"Not that I'm complaining," Spike continued. He tossed the pants to the floor behind him before returning his hands to her calves, gliding back up their length in a savoring of her skin. "Anyone ever tell you you're absolutely scrumptious, pet? The things you make me do, make me want…"

Slipping around her back and under her shirt, Spike's hands pushed it up and out of his way, exposing the delicate lace of her bra. Her arms rose unbidden to allow him to draw it over her head, but the only thing he could see was the lush landscape of her curves, the swell of her breast, the simple vibration along the rise where her pulse announced its presence.

It was hypnotic.

It was breathtaking.

And, more than anything else, it drove away all doubts that this dangerous girl was exactly what Spike wanted.

As he watched, it quickened to a lightning speed that drew his gaze upward. Buffy's aspect was taut with sudden apprehension, and her muscles were already tensing for flight.

"Scrumptious implies edible," she said. "And funny, but that look in your eyes makes me think you want to eat me, not…you know."

He knew he shouldn't. The severity of her tone, the seriousness of her face…it all screamed at him how not kidding she really was. But…it was her words, or rather lack of them, that drove him to first smile, and then chuckle out loud, and before he could stop himself, he was saying, "You can do it, but you can't say it? Didn't figure you for bein' a priss in the sack, Slayer."

"What're you talking about? I'm not here to become your new chewtoy! That's not what---."

Her rising voice stiffened his spine, and without thinking, Spike settled his hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. "Shut it, will you? I didn't waste my time putting the rugrat to sleep just to have you spoil it by bein' completely and utterly daft." His finger jabbed at his temple. "Forget 'bout my little leash problem already?" he demanded. "Can't hurt you even if I wanted to. So stop thinkin' like a Slayer for half a sec, and consider that maybe, just _maybe_, you might just amuse the hell out of me because you can do the deed but you can't say the bloody word. Ever think of that?"

She lay frozen beneath him, each muscle coiled in preparation for argument. Then, slowly, one hand came up to pry his from her mouth. "You looked at me like---."

"---you're the most tantalizing morsel I've seen in the last decade?" Spike finished. "Yeah, I did. 'Cause there's nothin' more I want right now then to taste you all over, pet." He fell forward, hands on either side of her head while his mouth ducked down to skate along her jaw. "In case it's escaped your attention, I'm a bit orally fixated here…" Now, his tongue was lapping at the soft spot just beneath her ear, swallowing down the tiny tidbits of her that he could, feeling her body begin to relax again beneath him. "…and all I can think of, and all I can see, is how amazing you're goin' to be when I can finally get my mouth where I want it."

All the tension was gone. "And where's that?" Buffy whispered, and the shakiness in her voice betrayed her desire even more than the languor of her limbs.

Spike didn't answer. Instead, he slid back down the length of her body, glorying in her stifled moan when his clothes scraped against her sensitive skin. When he reached her pelvis, he didn't stop, letting his hands take the silky fabric of her panties in a liquid motion as they continued down her legs, leaving her wet and exposed and waiting in hungry anticipation of what might happen next.

"Take your bra off," he ordered huskily, resting his hands on the inside of her knees to push them to the side.

Her arms lifted to do as he instructed, but then froze as a playful glint appeared in Buffy's eye. "What happened to that being _your_ job?" she asked innocently.

He grinned. He had to. The sheer taunt in her voice was like ambrosia, and certainly not a tone he ever expected to be on the receiving end of, especially in light of her most recent over-reaction to his good humor. "Hope it's not one of your favorites then," Spike warned as he began to reach for it. "'Cause if _I'm_ the one who takes it off, it's not goin' to be wearable again."

Buffy's hands moved so quickly, he couldn't help but laugh when the garment went slingshotting over his head. It took only a moment for her to join him in the mirth, but when Spike bowed to run his tongue along her inner thigh, she choked on the sound, her fingers digging into the blanket they rested upon. "What…what're you…going to do?" she said.

"Thought that was obvious," he replied. He planted a row of tiny nibbles along her skin, each bite creating a new quake that undulated down Buffy's thigh. "I'm goin' to eat you."

"That's…that's…that's…crude," she panted. "You're a…pig, Spike."

He smiled, his mouth hovering above the wiry curls. "That's my Slayer," he breathed, and then darted out his tongue to draw a long swipe along her outer lips.

Buffy's hips bucked from the bed at the contact, but she surprised him by staying silent, not even moaning when he pushed her back down to begin a more deliberate exploration with his tongue.

_Prats__ don't know what they were missing. Bloody nectar of the gods, she is._

When he felt Buffy's hands tangle in his hair, drawing him closer with a strength he couldn't---and didn't want to---fight, Spike dove back in, sinking a single finger into her heat, nearly coming in his jeans when her inner muscles sucked and tugged him even deeper.

Buffy's breathing was a ragged symphony to the rising pounding in her blood, and it---more than anything else---urged Spike to quicken his slides into her depths, to alternate his sucks and flicks with hungry nips between blunt teeth, so that both of them were rapidly riding the crest of their excitement. When he felt her tighten around his hand, he curled his free arm beneath her bottom to draw her even closer to his attack.

Her thighs locked around his head when she came, though moving away from her succulence was the last thing Spike could envision. Drinking down her juices, Spike reveled in the pliant flesh beneath his hands, all life and death and power and vulnerability wrapped up in Slayer skin that gleamed pink and gold in the dim light. How had he gone so long without this? he wondered as she shuddered around him.

He had no answer to that. He only knew he wasn't about to let it get away without a fight. He didn't care what Buffy's thoughts on Sunnydale were.

------

She couldn't think.

She couldn't breathe, for that matter, not when her entire body was still reeling from the Orgasm of Where-the-Hell-Did-_That_-Come-From. Nobody had ever gone down on her before; she and Riley had barely made it past second base before his manhood wigged out on her and split for the safer ground of non-Slayer sorority girls. And as for Parker and Angel…well, the less said on those two, the better.

She'd been curious, of course. Willow had told her about it once when she and Oz had been experimenting, but Buffy had begged off on knowing too many details because thinking of a guy she saw so often with his face between…OK, not even _finishing_ that thought.

Not finishing _any_ thought because the power of free will had completely escaped Buffy's control.

This was _so_ not going how she'd thought it was going to. It wasn't bad---oh god, far, far from it---but she'd given up trying to predict just what was going to happen when Spike was around. She supposed part of it was her fault. She'd gone up to the loft with the thought that it was further from Holly's door; if they made noise, they'd be less likely to wake up the kid. And when the vampire took so long to join her, she'd set about to tidying just to keep herself from chickening out, though she was kind of glad he hadn't actually pulled back the blanket to see that she'd just straightened it out on top of the still-askew sheet beneath it. Buffy'd even considered stripping down to nothing just to surprise him, but that had smelled of desperation, even to her.

Maybe it was because she was really only familiar with traditional, vanilla sex. Even with Angel, as wonderful as that night had been, it had been about love and feelings, not about lust and desire. OK, _some_ lust, but not like this. Not like Spike. Spike had set about devouring her with a hunger that was both exhilarating and terrifying, hence her temporary freakout when she thought he was going to try biting her.

Even now, he stayed nestled between her legs, his silvery hair glowing against her tanned skin, his tongue still luxuriating in the fluids that were coating her thighs. Unconsciously, Buffy's hand stretched down to flutter through his disheveled curls---_did _I _do that?---_and she was greeted with desire-darkened eyes that seemed to bore straight through her.

"She lives," he commented with a sly smirk. His voice was rough, serrating across her skin with a drowsy pull that made her clit start to tingle again, and Buffy's throat tightened as she tugged at him to sprawl atop her.

"You know," she said, and squirmed when his zipper grazed across her mound as he adjusted his weight along her body, "the old Buffy would just kick you out of this bed and say, 'Get yourself off, Spike.'" When his eyes began to narrow, she expertly scissored her legs around his hips and flipped him to the side, leaving her straddling his still-straining erection, her hair falling over her shoulder to tickle his cheek. "Good thing you've got the new, improved Buffy, huh?"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "What happened to me not bein' beneath you?" he teased.

She pretended to pout. "You don't want me on top? Fine. I'll just---." She was cut off with a squeak when he yanked her down to slam his lips to hers, stopping her from where she'd been ready to dismount, and driving his tongue deep into the hot recesses of her mouth. It was a demand for possession she didn't ignore, returning his ardor just as fervently, just as willfully, until the need for air dictated she pull away.

"Your turn," Buffy panted. Before Spike could question what she meant, her hands were on his waistband, fumbling with the stiff denim until he sprang free, and she slowed as she worked the jeans away from his hips.

She'd seen it the previous night, of course. She would've denied it until she was blue in the face, but watching him sleep, stretched in silver radiance atop his sheets, all sinewy splendor with muscles she'd only gotten a hint of during Willow's spell, she couldn't help but feel her pussy instinctively contract, squeezing her thighs together while she imagined what he would feel like inside her. He'd shattered that spell as soon as he'd opened his mouth, but it didn't detract from the lingering desire, especially when he stood and she felt his erection brush against her stomach.

And now here it was again, defiant and determined as it jutted from the dark hair between his legs. Spike's eyes were intent, but rather than touch him as she knew he expected, Buffy grabbed his hands and pulled him into a sitting position, meeting the puzzled lift of his brow with a smile.

"I said, it was your turn," she said, and slid around behind him so that their bodies mirrored how they'd been sitting in front of the fireplace. A deep inhalation before she grabbed the hem of his tee flooded Buffy's senses with his smoky scent, and as soon as his skin was bared, her lips were on him, licking and nibbling along his shoulder blades as her hands slithered around and across his chest.

Because she had to taste him. She had to touch him. What he'd done to her…she wanted that again.

But not until she gave him a taste of his own medicine.

To be continued in Chapter 21: Here Comes Santa Claus…


	21. Here Comes Santa Claus

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Spike and Buffy are finally giving in to their desire for each other…

-----

She molded to him like a second skin, tiny hands splayed across his chest, thighs clamped around his, hard nipples threatening to prick his back where she leaned up against him. The spread of her legs around him was a tickling sensation Spike was more than willing to enjoy, to savor along with all the others. His head was swimming with the abundance of Buffy---on him, inside him, all around---and the glimmers of potency her whispering hands promised made him brace against the trembling that was already starting deep inside his groin.

Her mouth was consuming him in flame, and Spike's muscles twitched as she alternately bit and licked between his shoulder blades. "Buffy…luv…" he murmured, and lifted his hand to capture both of hers from the gentle torture on his chest.

The brush of her hair when she stretched to perch her chin on his shoulder made him shiver, and Spike swore he could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke. "You _can't_ be wanting me to stop already," she said quietly. "What happened to that vampire stamina you've been so puffed-up about?"

With a chuckle, he raised her wrists to his mouth and suckled the sensitive skin along the left. "Don't you be fussed 'bout me not lasting," he said. "It's just…" But the words caught in his throat, refusing to obey his command.

_Don't be a git_, his demon was arguing. _The Slayer's not interested in listening to you wax rhapsodic 'bout her charms. Just let her get that pretty little mouth back to work so you can get off before she has a chance to change her mind on the subject._

There was more than a bit of logic in the reasoning. Spike still wasn't convinced Buffy wouldn't do an about-face on the matter of their intimacy; in fact, he was almost shocked that she hadn't done a runner after getting her own rocks off. After all, he was still the same bloke she'd spent the past two years denouncing and demeaning at every opportunity. If he were in her shoes, he'd be doing that very thing.

And before he'd gained an inkling as to how enthralling the Slayer actually could be, Spike would've given her his best it's-been-fun-and-that's-it speech. Well, it wasn't actually a speech. In the past, the speech had been more of a quick kill, but since he wasn't in a position to do that presently, words would have to do.

Or _would've_ had to do, because this was a spot of fun Spike had no intention of losing any time soon.

"It's just what?" Buffy prompted, when his silence lagged for too long.

"It's just…we need to remember 'bout the moptop down below," he finally said. His tongue traced the fine veins of her wrist in a silken path to her palm. "Last thing I'm interested in havin' right now is another bottle break 'cause a certain Slayer couldn't keep her mouth shut."

"You want my mouth shut?" Her bottom lip was jutting out in a pretty pout when she slid around to face him, leaving Spike's back oddly cold in her absence. "And here I had all these plans for it."

His brow quirked. "Oh? Care to share with the rest of the class, pet?"

A wicked gleam appeared in the green. "I'm more of a show than a tell kind of gal," she said. Leaning in to press her mouth to his neck, Buffy straddled his thigh, unconsciously nudging him with her knee.

The tease dragged a groan from Spike, and his hands reached to grip convulsively at her waist. "Far be it for me to keep a girl from her natural talents," he managed as her hot tongue slid to his chest.

She must've remembered his reaction from their first kiss. Before he could coax her anywhere near them, Buffy was drawing circles around his dusky nipples, allowing her nails to flick the odd scratch across the charged skin. Each brush made his erection jump, but Spike remained helpless beneath her touch, shuddering when she caught one between her teeth.

"Surprise, surprise," she murmured as she slid further down his stomach. "A vampire who likes to be bitten. You're a walking cliché, Spike."

His mouth opened for a smart retort, but it was arrested by the gasp of pleasure that escaped the moment Buffy's lips wrapped around his arousal. She didn't slide down, instead choosing to focus her tongue's attention on the tip, and Spike fell back on his elbows as the strength in his arms seemed to disappear.

_Knew Soldier Boy was an idiot. How in bloody hell could he walk away from _her

He lost himself in the sensations when Buffy began to take him deeper, using her hand in conjunction with her mouth. So tight, he imagined that she wasn't even aware of how much of her strength she was putting into it, and he moaned in encouragement, wondering if he dared voice that she could go even rougher. When her other hand dropped to stroke the soft skin of his thighs, though, his moans turned into words.

"Fuck, Buffy, yeah…like that…so hot, so gorgeous, love that pretty little mouth of yours…don't stop…there, like that, god, Buffy, don't know what took us so bloody long…want you…want you…luv…"

She never broke her rhythm. Even when Spike began thrusting up into her mouth, Buffy only increased the pressure. The tightening came too soon, all heat and up and heaven and down, and Spike scrabbled for Buffy's shoulders, tugging to pull her off even as his hips refused to stop their rocking. "Buffy, pet, stop," he begged, and somewhere in the back of his brain wondered who it was that was sounding so desperate.

She slid off with a reluctant swipe, leaving him cold and aching and for a moment resentful of his decision. "What is it?" she asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

His eyes shot open in disbelief. "What? No. Don't be daft."

"Then why---?"

"Because I was about two seconds away from coming, luv."

"I thought that was the whole idea."

"Yeah, but…" Slipping his hands beneath her arms, Spike twisted to his side as he guided her to lie on the mattress next to him. This close, he could see the confused shine in her eyes, but what transfixed him was the soft curve of her bottom lip, still swollen from its rigorous attention to his cock. "Have I mentioned yet how much I love this lip?" he murmured, brushing it softly with the pad of his thumb.

She actually blushed. "I think you might've said something along those lines once upon a time," Buffy said, pulling away to break the contact.

Too far away, he decided, and curled his arm around her back to pull her against him. His kiss, when their lips met, was slow and determined, forcing her to respond when it felt for a moment that she might pull away, exacting as much control over his precarious nerves as he could feasibly manage. He wasn't ready for this to be over, and if Spike had to settle for kissing---though what a way to settle, he could drown in these kind of kisses---while he waited for his threshold to ebb, then that's what he'd do.

"Spike…Spike…" Buffy's hands were on his chest, pushing him away even as she opened her mouth to his.

He tightened his grip, growling against her denial.

"I don't…Spike!"

His eyes opened, and immediately his stomach fell. He knew that look on her face. It was old Buffy's favorite whenever she was talking to him. Or talking down at him, rather.

He knew it was too good to last.

"Kinda spoiling the mood here, Slayer," Spike said. "Thought we were in the middle of something." He'd almost added the word "special" before he caught himself. Wouldn't the Slayer _love_ that, considering her current state of mind?

"Well, I thought _I_ was," she replied. Something was getting her dander up, and while he normally considered that a good thing---there was nothing better than a worked-up Slayer---now, it was getting in the way of some serious shagging. "You stopped me."

Was _that_ what was bothering her? "Because I didn't want to come yet. Told you that." He slipped his hand between their bodies to plunge two fingers into her wetness. "In case you didn't notice, I'm holding out for someplace a little…deeper."

Her indignant resolve softened when his thumb started pressing against her. "Oh," Buffy breathed. Her tongue darted out to lick her suddenly-dry lips. "I thought…oh."

"Don't be tryin' to tell me you didn't know what you were doin' to me," Spike murmured. Pressing her back onto the bed without breaking his rhythm, his mouth lowered to the slope of her breast, tasting the salty tang that coated her skin. "Bloody intoxicating, you are."

He almost smiled when she tangled her fingers in his hair to hold him closer. "It's just…" She squeaked when he sucked her nipple against the roof of his mouth. "I haven't…I wanted it to be as good for you…"

"And me almost coming doesn't prove that to you?" he asked, lifting his head. Extracting his hand, Spike threw his knee over Buffy's body until the tip of his arousal was brushing against her, and his brow dropped until it rested against hers. "Know you said no more talkin' 'bout the exes tonight, pet, so I'll make this quick. Forget about that prat. Forget about all of 'em. Not one of 'em knew what a good thing they had in you."

-----

It was the remarkable similarity to when they'd been under Willow's spell that had first started wigging Buffy out. Spike's fixation on her bottom lip was something out of a dream---_nightmare_, she hastily corrected---and not something that was supposed to pop up in the middle of a blowjob. Or what would've been a blowjob, if he'd let her finish. She was half-tempted to toss him to the floor and force him to submit to its completion; _that's_ how turned on she'd been on by his response to her.

But then he'd stopped, and _what guy didn't want to come?_, and the whole trying to distract her with one of those amazing kisses, and Buffy was thisclose to calling the entire arrangement off. She didn't need him toadying over her oral inadequacies once they were out of this place. How would she ever explain _that_ to the gang?

Her body betrayed her the instant his hand had returned to her body. She wanted him. Badly. So badly she was ready to admit to Spike just how good it had been for her when she _knew_ that was a bad, bad idea of epic proportions. But she'd stopped herself in time, only to feel the knots inside loosen further when he made that startling, terrifying, electric observation.

She didn't answer him with words. She couldn't. Buffy's mouth was suddenly dry, her throat too tight to work as the depth of what he'd said sank in. Relief that he wasn't looking at her---that those eyes that saw straight through her, hooked their claws and yanked until she had to see it, too, were shuttered behind his admission---made it easier to open her body beneath his, her legs sliding around his hips so that she was exposed for the next step. She almost held her breath when Spike lifted his head to look down at her, and then sighed in pleasure when he pressed forward, to sink with excruciating patience into her depths.

Buffy tightened her legs around him, stilling Spike as she sought his eyes. "We have to be quiet," she reminded him. "I don't want…" She swallowed. "I don't want to have to stop."

He only nodded, leaning in to capture her lips as he began the familiar rhythm of pumping in and out of her heat.

He went slow, taking his time with each stroke as if he was a connoisseur savoring every taste. To Spike's credit, the bed she'd feared would creak with their movement remained just as silent as he was. He almost seemed to be taking her instruction literally, maintaining a quiet that was too eerie and out of place for the vampire. It forced her attention to his body, though, the way the muscles across his back rippled with every thrust, the way his mouth never stopped worshipping hers with those possessive kisses, the way she could almost imagine that somewhere deep inside he was trembling.

When he brought his hand up to palm her breast, Buffy arched away from the mattress, breaking from his mouth for the first time since he entered her. Spike was having none of that, however, and hooked his other arm behind her neck to keep her head in place, slamming his lips back down in a hunger matched only by his fingers. Desperate, she clawed into his powerful back, raking her nails across the smooth skin.

He surprised her by sitting up, perching her on his lap, still buried to the hilt inside her. Buffy broke from his mouth to stare at him wide-eyed, but Spike remained mute, coaxing her back into movement with a slight rocking of his hips. As she slid up his length, watching his dark lashes flutter closed for the briefest of moments, his nostrils flare from the overpowering sensations wracking his body, she decided she couldn't take it any longer. It was just too unnatural.

"Talk to me," Buffy whispered.

Though he tilted his head in questioning, Spike didn't stop moving, helping her ride him by directing her hips to the deepest of depths before allowing her to slide back up again.

"Don't want to wake the little nipper," he murmured.

"We won't," she promised.

"And bedtalk's goin' to make this better for you?" There was a devilish gleam in his eye as their pelvises met. "I must be losing my touch." He cock slid away, and she clenched, making him chuckle. "So, then, tell me, luv." He pulled her closer, running his tongue along the curve of her breast to catch the drop of sweat that had collected there, but the fluid did nothing to smooth the husky cadence to his voice. "Tell me what you want to hear."

She clung to him in hungry desperation, his request resounding inside her skull. How could he expect her to think coherently when every stroke, in and out, up and down, was slamming rational thought away to the farthest recesses of her mind? Even such a simple act as kissing the line of her collarbone created havoc with her synapses, firing in so many directions at once that Buffy was sure she was going to fly apart any minute now.

But she had made the appeal.

She wanted it.

She needed it. For some unknown reason.

And so she answered him.

-----

He didn't expect a response. Buffy's reception to their fucking was quickly chasing away all of her famed control, and Spike was exultant that he was the cause of it. There'd been so many hints of the passion that lay beneath the Slayer exterior, and now, to have it, to have her staring at him in mixed lust and respect, was enough to rouse his own passions to unforeseen heights.

So, when she leaned into him, and settled her sweet mouth at his ear, not once breaking her rhythm, it was all Spike could do not to come on the spot.

"Just you," Buffy said, and her warm breath sent a scintillating tickle down his spine. "All I want…is you."

He growled when she began kissing and biting the sinew of his neck and shoulder, and held her tighter, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, her breasts crushed so close to his chest that, for a moment, Spike thought it was his own heart he felt beating.

When he spoke, he gave no thoughts to the words, just let them come forth in a torrential pulse that flowed over and around them in tandem with their movement. He wasn't even sure what he said---certainly, there were many effusions on how beautiful she was, how good and tight she felt, how bloody marvelous he felt inside her, though what the specifics were, were beyond his grasp---but they seemed to do the trick, because Buffy began to burn even brighter, her skin so hot and slick, he was fighting to hold on.

She was even speaking back, in his ear, against his skin, creating a tattoo of want for Spike that left his flesh feeling branded.

As her orgasm approached, Buffy's pace quickened, squeezing and riding him with tiny sounds that were almost squeaks. With her legs wrapped around his waist, Spike could feel the trembling begin in her calves, creeping upward and inward with alarming haste, fuelling the soft keening until he began to fear of waking the child below. He entwined his fingers through her hair, dragging her mouth away from where she was still attacking his neck and as he felt her contract around him, slammed his lips to hers, swallowing down the scream he knew she wouldn't be able to hold as she rode out the waves of her orgasm.

Even as it ebbed, though, she didn't slow down, not even whenl there was no more fighting the tornado inside his flesh. Spike came with a blinding explosion, forcing her with demanding hands to remain still as surge after surge echoed within his body. His mouth left hers when he buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the musky scent of her skin as the sweat that had collected there tickled his tongue, and gave one last shudder when her hands softly caressed the broad of his back.

They stayed like that for several long minutes. Though Buffy had relaxed the hold her legs had around his waist, her arms still clung to Spike's torso, and he luxuriated in the heat that radiated from her center.

_Could get used to this.__ Forgot how good a warm body can feel_._ Buffy's body. Bloody hell, how could I have known?_

He couldn't stop tasting her, his lips sliding across the tender line of her neck, his tongue capturing every essence it could find. But when Buffy twisted to find her clothes lying haphazardly on the floor, it broke him away from the suction of her body, driving his eyes to her face.

She wouldn't look at him. Those tempting eyes, still dark with manifest desire, were jumping between her various articles of clothing, to the edge of the ladder, to the dishevelment of the blankets beneath them, and already, Spike could feel her pulling away, the wall she was so adept at hiding behind resuming its place between them.

"Where are you goin'?" he asked, grabbing her wrist when she finally slid off his cock.

She didn't pull away, but just stood there, staring at his fingers so white against her tan. "Someone needs to sleep downstairs," Buffy said quietly. No word of what had just transpired between them. What had he expected? Spike knew he should count himself lucky for actually getting to come. "Holly might decide to sleepwalk again," she added.

"No reason to babysit the front door," Spike argued. He wasn't going to give in to her stubbornness so quickly. Not without a fight. "Let me block it off. You won't have to fuss 'bout her doing another walkabout."

"She could do anything down there---."

"So I'll stay up and keep an ear out for her." Gently, he tugged, pulling Buffy back onto his lap, and resumed kissing the curve of her neck. "Don't go."

He could feel her hesitation to acquiesce to his request, and pounced on the fact that it wasn't a straight-up no to come hurtling from her fists. "Got a nice warm bed here that's more than big enough for the two of us," Spike continued with a pat to the mattress, as if she needed to be reminded of its presence. "Don't tell me it won't be more comfy than the couch. And a good night's sleep will do your body good."

"_You_ could always sleep on the couch for a change," Buffy said.

His head tilted. "When it's _my_ bed? Don't think so, pet."

"And…what? You want to _cuddle_?" There was no masking her disbelief, but she still wasn't moving. "That's too weird, even for you, Spike."

He fell back onto the mattress, taking her with him so that they were stretched out along its length. "Not so weird, if you think about it, luv." Turning her in his arms, Spike cradled her against his chest, feeling her ass automatically burrow back into his groin. Carefully, his fingers played with her breast, teasing the nipple back to hardness, and he smiled unseen when Buffy rested her head on his bicep. Already, she was half-asleep, and he dropped his voice to its most soothing rumble as he continued to coax her.

"You can argue about it with me in the mornin'," Spike murmured. "In fact, I'll make sure you do. Can't have you goin' too soft on the Big Bad here, can we?" He nudged his returned erection against her bottom, drawing a quiet moan from Buffy's throat. "I think I'm hard enough for the both of us for now, though."

"Oink, oink, Spike." But she was so close to slumber that it came through with no conviction, quiet and ephemeral in the air between them.

He stroked her hair in delicate sweeps, waiting until her breathing had evened before replying.

"That's my Slayer."

To be continued in Chapter 22: Christmas Is Coming…


	22. Christmas Is Coming

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Spike have consummated their relationship, and when Buffy tried to leave his bed, Spike convinced her to stay…

-----

Something was wrong with her feet.

Like…heavy kind of wrong.

Like…not really a part of her kind of wrong.

Just…wrong.

As she struggled through the clouds of sleep to wakefulness, Buffy fought to remember what it was she had dreamt about that could render such a reaction in her conscious world. Had she been Bozo the Clown? A demon with enormous blocks for feet?

…Nothing.

She didn't think she'd dreamed anything.

She _did_, however, more than remember what had happened directly prior to falling asleep. The sex with Spike. His insistence that she stay. Her reluctance to go, even though she knew that staying was only going to encourage him into thinking that they had any kind of real future when they both knew it was impossible. He'd been so surprising, almost gentle, as he'd tugged her back to the bed. That was a memory that wasn't going anywhere.

And did she mention the great sex?

She could feel him now, the weight of his arm curled around her waist, his erection poking into her bottom. He wasn't moving, not even a surreptitious grope like he had that first night on the couch, so…asleep maybe?

Buffy frowned, though she had yet to fully break from the vestiges of slumber.

_Asleep?__ So much for keeping his ears open. Stupid vamp couldn't even keep his _eyes_ open_.

_Damn it._

She really hoped Holly had stayed put for the night. She didn't want to have to explain to the Ghosts of Christmas Past that she'd lost their little girl because she'd been too busy boinking the vampire who was supposed to be the bane of her existence. What could she possibly say to them? Oops?

In the meantime, she really had to figure out what was wrong with her feet. She couldn't go chasing after anyone if her toes were going to be on the missing in action list. Maybe it was an afteraffect of the frostbite.

Slowly, Buffy cracked her eyelids, grateful that there wasn't any sun in the loft to blind her. She was about to push the blanket away when she spied the reason her feet felt so heavy.

"I'm hungry," Holly said, from where she was perched on the end of the bed.

"Ssshhh…" Buffy automatically said. "We don't want to wake---."

"Already up."

Her head whipped around to see Spike gazing down at her, curls tousled into sexy spikes, and she felt the irresistible urge to reach up and tangle her fingers in them. _Bed hair.__ Yum._

Buffy blanched at her traitorous thoughts, and started to push the comforter back to get away from the vampire, only to feel the cool cabin air glide across her naked breasts. With a quick yank, she held the blanket to her chin as she sat up against the headboard, her eyes jumping between the two who seemed so intent on watching her.

It was evil. Like they'd planned it ahead of time or something. No matter which one she was looking at, both Holly and Spike's gazes followed her like a demonic painting.

"What?" she demanded, when the silence stretched too long for comfort.

"I'm hungry," Holly repeated.

"Moptop wants breakfast," Spike said casually.

"I heard her the first time."

"Can I have hot chocolate?" the child asked.

Buffy frowned, her head swiveling to the foot of the bed. "No, that's not breakfast food." __

"But I played the game like Spike said," came her plaintive reply. "He said if I played, I could have hot chocolate."

Back to Spike. "What game?"

"She wouldn't stop blathering," he explained. "You seemed like you could use the shut-eye, so I made a deal with her. Play the Quaker Meeting game 'til you woke up, and she'd get what she wanted for brekky."

Buffy shook her head. "OK, first of all, making deals with three-year-olds? Not exactly going to win you any awards as Babysitter of the Year. What if she'd wanted an ice cream sundae, Spike? What would you have done then?"

"Oh! I can have ice cream?"

She ignored the child who was now bouncing on the end of the bed. "Secondly, why couldn't _you_ make her breakfast? Why wait up for me to do it?"

His chin jerked in the direction of the dresser on her side of the bed. "Clothes are in there," he said, a sly smile already breaking through. "And you were all twisted up in the duvet. You really want me to be flashing her my goodies?"

The fact that his jeans were dangling over the loft railing didn't escape Buffy's attention, but the last thing she felt capable of dealing with right now was a bunch of questions from a far too inquisitive young mind about why they were both naked in the first place. Instead, she asked, "So why didn't you send her back down while you got dressed?"

Holly stopped jumping at that, and shook her head. "I don't do down. I fall."

Spike's faux innocent shrug, as if he was saying _you heard the kid, what do you expect me to do?,_ made Buffy want to scream. "Fine," she said. "I'll do breakfast." She leaned over the side of the bed to pick up her shirt, but realized her pants were slightly out of her reach, and she wasn't even going to _think_ about where her bra might have ended up when she'd slingshot it.

Scrunching down further under the blanket, she slapped Spike's hand that had followed her beneath its cover. "Can you get my pants, please, Holly?" Buffy asked before ducking to pull the shirt over her head. When she re-emerged just a few seconds later, she frowned when she saw that the child hadn't moved from her perch at the end of the bed. "What's wrong?"

"Are you going to yell at me for helping again?"

The query made her wince. "No," she said gently. "No more yelling."

That seemed to satisfy Holly, and she scrambled off with a tumble to fetch the garment in question. Under the blanket, Buffy had to push away Spike's questing fingers again, and shot him a dirty look before the child turned back to face them.

"How come you came up here?" Buffy asked as she slithered into her trousers. _Ick.__ First thing I do once I get downstairs is find some clean underwear._

"I couldn't find you. I got scared." She looked back and forth at the two adults. "Were you scared, too? Is that why _you_ came up here?"

She could hear Spike chuckling, but Buffy ignored it as she slid off the bed. "We were talking," she offered in careful explanation.

"Without your clothes on?"

_How do I get myself into these corners?_ But before she could reply, the mattress squeaked behind her as Spike spoke up.

"Sometimes that's the only way to get yourself heard," he said nonchalantly. Scooping Holly into her arms, Buffy pivoted to see him sprawling against the headboard like he was king of the castle. "'Specially when one of you is a stubborn bint who's got delusions of self-grandeur."

Her jaw dropped to argue with him, but snapped quickly shut again when she caught the twinkle in his eye. "C'mon," she said, heading for the ladder. "Let's go get something to eat."

As uncomfortable as it had been, Buffy decided as soon as they were downstairs that it was better she had been wakened in that particular manner rather than some other way. If it had just been she and Spike on that bed, she was positive one of two things would've happened. Either Spike would've insisted on having some kind of post-coital confrontation or they would've had a repeat of the previous night. Possibly even both.

Her thighs automatically warmed as the memories flooded her mind.

OK, so the sex had been good. Really good. Better than chocolate good. And she had to concede the bonus points for Spike not going evil---because, hey, _already_ evil---_and_ for actually being there when she woke up. That was more than she'd gotten from a human, albeit jerk-y, Parker, and…

She really didn't want to finish that comparison.

But being a cuddler, and being amazing in bed, didn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things, right? Because it wasn't possible for the two of them to have any sort of _real_ relationship when they got out of here, even if they seemed to be getting along better now, and even if she couldn't honestly say she hated him any more, and even if just thinking about his lips made her start quivering like a leaf all over again.

Or was it?

Absentmindedly, Buffy took the eggs out of the refrigerator, setting them on the counter as she filled a pan with water. So lost in thought, she didn't even realize she'd pulled out the second pan until a small voice from the table stayed the hand she was reaching back inside the fridge.

"Can I try some?"

Buffy looked down to see the blood bag in her grip, then glanced up at the soft step of the approaching vampire. He was dressed now, though his feet were bare, and he watched her in wary expectation as he straddled the far chair. For the long moment their eyes held, the events of the past twenty-four hours went rushing through Buffy's brain, all his words and all his deeds tumbling into an oddly comforting pattern that seemed to settle at least one of the questions that had befuddled her.

"No," Buffy said firmly. She resumed the task of heating up his breakfast, studiously avoiding Spike's gaze again. "Little girls don't drink blood. Little girls eat eggs."

"What about my hot chocolate?"

The last thing she expected was for Spike to try and fix what he'd done. "How 'bout we have that for special tonight, pidge?" he said. "Seein' as how it'll be Christmas Eve, it'll be a treat, don't you think?"

"Are we going to leave some for Santa, too?"

Buffy froze in mid-stir. _Crap. I never even thought about that._

"Don't think Father Christmas knows where we are," Spike offered. "We're playin' hide-and-seek, remember? Like Doyle said. If everyone knew we were here, it wouldn't be much of a game, now would it?"

"But---."

"Why don't you go and wash your hands?" Buffy interrupted with a bright smile. "Breakfast is almost ready."

It was obvious she didn't like the suggestion, but Holly obeyed anyway, sliding from her chair and padding quietly to the bathroom. Hesitating at the door, she stole a glance back at the pair in the kitchen before disappearing inside. In an instant, Buffy was at Spike's side.

"What're we going to do?" she hissed.

He frowned. "'Bout what?"

"About…" Buffy waved in the general direction of the bathroom. "…that."

"Still not following, pet."

"She's going to expect Christmas tomorrow, especially since you've gone ahead and reminded her that it's right around the corner."

"And here I thought the giant tree in the living room was what gave us away. My mistake."

"I'm serious, Spike. She's three. She deserves to have _some_ kind of holiday. And we've got nothing here."

His eyes narrowed at that, and he peeled himself off from the back of the chair. "Don't know if it's nothin'," he said slowly. "Thought we were doin' pretty good, considering."

In less than a blink, he'd completely changed the subject on her, and Buffy threw up her hands in exasperation. "I don't know why I bother---," she started to say, only to feel his hands grab her waist to pull her onto his lap.

"Tired of seein' the back of you," he growled into her neck. His mouth was already working along her skin, even as his fingers found their way beneath her top to hold her firmly against him. "Not that it's not a very pretty back, but---."

"All clean," Holly announced as she came back into the room.

Buffy tried to get off Spike's lap, but outside of pushing him off the chair, there was no way to gracefully break his grip. The thought of choosing a more physical means of getting free flitted across her mind, but somehow, she had the feeling that direct manhandling of the one person Holly actually seemed to like wasn't going to help boost her approval rating with the child.

The child who now gazed at the pair of them as if seeing them in such close contact was the most natural thing in the world.

"Got a plan for you today," Spike said.

Shifting to ask what it could possibly be, Buffy stayed silent when she saw his eyes resting on Holly.

"You like snow?" he went on to ask.

She nodded.

"Well, Buffy here's been bugging the hell outta me 'bout gettin' some fresh air. So, I was thinkin'…can you do me a favor and keep her company when she goes? I got this pesky sun allergy or I'd do it myself, and I can't just let her go out on her own, 'cause she's _always_ picking up stray demons and bringing 'em home. And the only demon I want around my Slayer is me."

Spike took that opportunity to pretend to bite at Buffy's shoulder, eliciting a giggle from Holly. Though she was still stiff within his embrace, Buffy could feel her resolve dissipating, and she just watched in amazement as he finished the negotiation with the child. He really was good with her; without even having to try very hard, he had Holly insisting on accompanying Buffy out into the snow for a day of fun and frolicking that would supposedly be good for the both of them.

"I need to stir your blood or it's going to burn," she interrupted as she heard it start to sizzle in the pan.

Spike sniffed at the air, but released her without question. When she rose to go to the stove, however, he followed after her, leaning against the counter at her side with the casual ownership of a man who had little desire to be long separated from…what? What exactly were they?

It didn't matter. Having him so near felt strangely right, even if she didn't get why. Buffy didn't even protest when he stretched a finger to swipe at the blood that spattered on her wrist, returning it to his mouth to absently suckle.

Only when Holly went scampering off to the bedroom to fetch her outdoors gear, did Buffy speak again.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"Do what?" Though he feigned innocence, she was more than aware of how he couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Don't think I'm doin' this just because you failed so miserably yesterday. I just fancy gettin' a bit of kip at some point today, is all. That's not goin' to happen if the pair of you are hovering about, 'specially if I have to play doctor to the nipper because of an unfortunate doily-making incident."

She didn't react when he moved to stand behind her, his hands on either side of the stove as he leaned in to run his lips along her neck. "Now, if _you_ fancied a turn at some doctoring," Spike murmured, "I wouldn't fuss about that. Bet we could find a whole slew of new ways to check your temperature."

"We've been down that road, remember?"

"Yeah, but this time, we've got a whole new map, luv."

Tilting her head to allow him better room to her neck seemed almost natural, and Buffy's eyes fluttered closed against the goosebumps his mouth was raising along her skin. She knew she shouldn't be giving in so readily to his touch; hadn't she come up with some sort of argument about why at some point? At the moment, though, it escaped her. It must've not been a very good one.

"Could always send the kid out to play on her own," he was whispering. Now, his hands had joined in the exploration, slipping beneath her shirt to stroke the tender skin of her stomach. "Missed the chance to wake you up good and proper this morning."

"Someone has to watch her," Buffy breathed. She grabbed his hand before it could disappear down the front of her pants. Time to nip this in the bud before Holly came back to find them naked on top of the table or something. "And I woke up just fine, thank you very much."

He pouted when she turned and shoved the saucepan of blood into his hands. "And here I thought gettin' laid might actually make you a sight more pleasant to be around," Spike groused.

Her jaw dropped, the last consideration in continuing with his touchy-feely flying away on the wings of his statement. "Excuse me?" she asked tightly.

"I'm just sayin'---."

"Yeah, I heard what you said." The plate she pulled out of the cupboard shattered when she slammed it down to the counter, and Buffy swore under her breath as she began picking up the pieces. When Spike reached to try and help, though, her elbow automatically shot back, connecting with his solar plexus and sending him stumbling into the table to skid it across the floor. "Is it so hard to keep your hands to yourself?" she complained.

"Didn't hear you protesting so much about my hands last night." He was already back up, strong fingers on her shoulder to whirl her around to face him. "What's really goin' on here?" he demanded. "Gettin' cold feet after the fact, pet?"

"My feet are just fine." Wrenching free, Buffy pushed past him to head for the bedroom. "Holly's eggs are done. If she complains about the yolks, just tell her they're yellow, not orange."

"Where are you going?"

"I've got a snowdate to get dressed for, remember?"

"What about hashing out whatever it is that's bothering you?"

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, but didn't bother to turn around and look at him. "I think I like my hash exactly where it is right now," Buffy said, and her voice was a bitter rasp in the wide room. It had all started out so promising; Spike had actually been pleasant. Of course, then the real Spike had stepped up to the plate. _He thinks he can make it easier for himself by getting me laid?!? _She knew it had been too good to be true.

"Buffy---."

"Save it, Spike." She pushed the door open and almost knocked down an overdressed Holly on the other side. Immediately, she stepped forward to take the little girl's hand in hers, ignoring the fact that the child seemed to be wearing half her wardrobe. "Ready to go play?"

-----

The local cops thought she was crazy. Even with the facts she had in hand from John back in Sunnydale, the police weren't willing to give Joyce any additional information that might help her in locating Buffy. If anyone had survived the crash, they explained, he or she would've turned up already. Since no one had, it could be safely assumed that the storm had probably killed them.

She refused to believe them. Giles was alive; she'd had the phone call to prove it. She couldn't use that as evidence, of course, because then they'd start asking awkward questions such as where he was or how he'd walked away from the accident. Without those answers, Joyce was just another overprotective mom with a missing daughter. Still, she couldn't just give up. Rupert had called her for a reason; she had to be diligent as she sought out the truth behind the crash.

The morning sun made the snow crisp and clean, as she slowed to a stop along the highway. Though she didn't know exactly where the accident had occurred, the reports had narrowed the stretch of road she was going to search to a mile's length. An early dusk the night before had prevented Joyce from going out then, but with a new day dawning so brightly ahead of her, she was ready to start the hunt with gusto, heavy boots on her feet, thick gloves on her hands.

Two hours later, she'd walked the mile four times, scrutinizing the trees carefully for any sign of the accident. There had been one point where she thought she might've seen some broken branches, but after following them for a few feet, she'd come to a very steep drop-off, and knew she was in no position to make that sort of hike. Still, she remembered the spot as somewhere to go back to, lest all of her other attempts failed.

Though what those attempts were going to be, Joyce had no idea.

-----

From her vantage point across the road, she was motionless as she watched Joyce get into the car for the third time to warm up, only stirring when she felt Jenny's presence appear at her side.

"What's going on?" Jenny asked. "I was in the middle of---."

"Mrs. Summers is here," the first woman said, pointing.

Jenny frowned. "Why?"

"I think she's looking for Buffy."

"But…I thought the police didn't identify Buffy as being in the car."

"They didn't."

The implications hung in the air between the two ghosts, and it wasn't until Joyce emerged to begin the trek along the road one more time that Jenny spoke up again.

"If Rupert told her where he was, Joyce wouldn't be here," she said.

"But he might've said something else to her," the first one argued. "Maybe there was a clue that she just doesn't recognize."

"And what would we do if we found him? Maria will be too heavily warded for us to get through. No, I still think our best bet is to keep an eye on Holly here. For the sacrifice to work, Maria has to come to her, so this way, we're safe."

They watched as Joyce stopped at the broken branches again, this time venturing further down the slope to investigate. "If she keeps this up," the first one said, "she's going to find Buffy and Spike before sundown."

"Or get herself killed."

"Neither option is acceptable."

"So, what're you saying? We stop her from looking for her daughter?" Jenny shook her head. "We've interfered too much as it is."

The first woman smiled. "That's funny, coming from the one of us who arranged to have vampires attack Buffy."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"I think that's why you don't want to look for Giles," she teased. "You're afraid of what he's going to say if he finds out what you did."

"If I see Rupert," Jenny countered, "I think the last thing he's going to be freaking out about is a couple of vamps."

"This isn't solving the problem with Mrs. Summers."

"No, it's not."

Silence. If they'd had breath to hold, the two ghosts would've done so as they waited to see if Joyce would come up from the slope. When she finally did…

"So…" Jenny looked at her partner. "…do you have any brilliant ideas?"

To be continued in Chapter 23: Pine Cones and Holly Berries…


	23. Pine Cones and Holly Berries

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce is searching for Buffy, with Jenny and her ghostly companion on the watch, while the morning after for Buffy and Spike was less than stellar, resulting in Buffy storming out to play with Holly…

-----

Sleep was elusive.

His body was hungry for rest, having fulfilled its promise to stay awake and alert for signs of Holly's potential waking. Spike had given Buffy that vow with the sole purpose of seeing her get some well-deserved sleep, and watched over her during those midnight hours, not once aware of the time that slipped by until tiny feet announced their presence on the loft ladder.

She seemed so much smaller when she slept, fragile almost, though Spike knew the truth of that beyond any lingering doubts. What had transfixed him for the majority of the night, however, had not been the glory of the body she'd shared with him. It had been her face. More specifically, Buffy's mouth.

Soft. Still swollen from their kisses. The tightness around her cheeks gone in the comfort of her slumber.

He'd touched it once, and she'd moaned in her sleep, rolling around to curl into his chest like that was where she belonged. A small smile had seemed to play along its delicate curves, and Spike had impulsively brushed a kiss across it, tasting the innocence Buffy fought so fiercely to protect. He didn't know if that was a gesture she would allow once the morning came and, with it, the light of reason that she clung to with desperation; he only knew that he wanted it for as long as he could take it, and damned if he was going to let projections about her foolish pride get in the way of his current pleasure.

But her mouth…so many of the worries that hardened Buffy while she was awake vanished in the luxury of sleep, and Spike had spent the hours envisioning how to recreate the peace of her dreams in her waking world. He often enjoyed her caustic tongue, pleasured in the tension he could embroil within her body, but this was something beyond that, beyond wanting to provoke the Slayer into an attack, verbal or otherwise.

Why, though, he had no sodding clue.

So, he _wanted_ to sleep, needed to, really, if he didn't want to exhaust himself into being less than useful in keeping the nipper at bay. With Buffy and Holly out to play in the great outdoors, it was the perfect opportunity to get a few hours of uninterrupted rest. It was just…

He rolled over to face the wall.

His bed now smelled of her.

The blankets, the sheets, all of the bloody pillows. Everywhere he turned, Spike was assaulted by the scent of eau de Slayer---her arousal, her sweat, the perfume of that golden skin where it had rubbed and rolled across surfaces he'd never imagined she would embrace. It was too much, keeping her tangible and elusory in all her blood-tingling vexation, his nerves stretching to find her though reason whispered the truth of her absence.

With a growl, Spike threw the pillow against the wall and leapt from the bed, circling around its foot as he glared at in defiance. Bugger if he was going to let her get to him when she wasn't even around. He needed to sleep, and sleep he damn well would. The sight of the rag rug on the floor caught his eye and he pounced on it, stretching along it as a poor cousin to the comfort of the sheets. It would have to do.

But without the direct distraction of Buffy's not-long-gone presence, Spike's brain defied his body's decree for rest, playing over the events of the morning with a repetition that made throwing a few pillows the least he wanted to do. Where had it gone wrong? He'd let her sleep, keeping the kid from doing her worst in waking her, and then she'd seemed almost shy when he'd wandered down for breakfast. Hell, she'd even been warming up some blood for him; surely, if she was so uptight about what had happened, she wouldn't be going to those lengths, would she?

His mind turned over her anxiety about Christmas for Holly. That had been when things had started to feel off to Spike. He'd deliberately changed the subject on her, hoping that she'd see through his subterfuge and take his tentative hint that maybe there was more to them than just the amazing sex.

And she'd promptly tried to run. Like she was so wont to do.

Coaxing her back into his arms had been relatively simple. Their bodies knew---had always known, if he bothered to give some thought to it---how to respond properly, how to ignore the trappings of labels and get to what truly mattered. It wasn't necessarily about the sex, Spike was learning. No, spending nearly a dozen hours just holding Buffy, feeling her molding to him in a carefree compulsion while his body did the same to hers, had begun to insinuate other, more terrifying notions about what exactly they were to each other. He wasn't ready to address those; there was enough to sort through already.

It didn't mean that they still didn't exist, though.

And it didn't mean that he couldn't expect just a tad more civility from the Slayer when it was obvious she was feeling the same. He didn't think that was asking for that much, in the grand scheme of things.

In frustrated anger, Spike's fist shot out and slammed into the wooden rail of the bed. It didn't break under the pressure---not with such solid oak beams holding the thing together---but it shot reassuring knives of pain through his curled fingers and up his arm. The sensations helped him focus as he fell onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

They couldn't go on like they had this morning. Not with eight more days left of their incarceration. Little Holly would be a mincemeat pie if he and Buffy didn't work this out. Hell, he wasn't sure they wouldn't all be mincemeat pies if things kept going like they had been.

He didn't particularly care for mincemeat. That was one English tradition he'd been glad to cast aside.

-----

She deliberately set aside thoughts of the disastrous morning with Spike, and instead lost herself in the simple joys of plunging through the snowy forest with Holly. Being a California girl, Buffy didn't get many opportunities to escape into wintry fantasies plucked straight out of Hollywood, but scampering among the trees after a giggling little girl who acted for the first time since she'd met the child as if she didn't have a care in the world, Buffy couldn't help but feel that maybe she'd discovered a forgotten pocket of tranquility.

She laughed as tiny arms appeared out of nowhere, wrapping around her leg with surprising strength.

"Gotcha!" Holly shouted.

"Don't think so," Buffy said, and before the child could escape, had bent and pried her away, hoisting her over her head and onto her shoulders with ease.

"Up! Up!" As Holly grabbed onto a low-hanging branch, the weight on the Slayer's body disappeared. Booted heels kicked at the trunk as she tried to swing her legs over, and it was only when Buffy pushed to help her onto the thick limb that Holly was able to clamber up.

"Looks like you're stuck now," Buffy commented. She took a small step back, watchful that the child was secure, and waited for the frightened response to come.

It didn't. "Wanna come up?" Holly asked.

Buffy shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

The branch was gnarled and sturdy as she settled into a bend further along its length, and the ground seemed surprisingly far away when she looked down. It hadn't seemed that high from below, and her eyes narrowed as Buffy began to rethink her decision.

"It's OK," Holly said. "It's not scary."

"You don't seem to get too scared about very much," the Slayer commented casually.

"Yes, I do."

"You're not scared of Spike."

This confused her. "Why should I be?"

"Maybe because he's a vampire?"

"But he takes care of me."

"Only because he has to."

"And he's funny. Funny isn't scary."

Buffy could tell she wasn't going to get anywhere with this thread of conversation. For whatever reason, Holly was firmly entrenched in Spike's goodwill camp and there was going to be no budging her.

"Well, I still think you're a very brave little girl," she said. "Doyle said you've been through a lot. I don't know if I would've been so brave when I was your age."

Holly fell silent at that, her mittened hands absently stroking the rough bark of the tree. Beneath the coats and scarves Buffy had probably gone a little overkill with, wind-chapped cheeks made a sharp contrast to the pallor around her eyes, though Buffy couldn't help but wonder if that was because of the sudden dilation of Holly's pupils. For a long moment, all they could hear was the soft whistle of the wind through the branches and the occasional soft swish when something would fall into the snow in the distance.

"Do you have a mommy?" Holly asked.

Buffy nodded. Her throat was suddenly too tight to speak, it would seem.

"Where is she?"

"Home," Buffy replied. "Sunnydale."

"Do you miss her?"

Another nod. What she was really missing was the gaiety of their games, but if Holly felt like she needed to talk about this, Buffy wasn't going to be the person to tell her no.

"My mommy comes to me when I'm sleeping."

Buffy frowned. Her first thought was _Ghosts?_ before common sense kicked in and booted her in the butt for living too long on the Hellmouth. "You mean, when you're dreaming," she clarified. "You have dreams about her?"

"She makes the bad stuff go away."

"That's what mommies do. It's part of their job description, I think."

More silence.

"Do mommy jobs make them die?"

The matter-of-factness of Holly's question took Buffy by surprise. "What? No, it's not like that," she said, but it sounded silly coming from her mouth. "Why would you think that?" she tried again.

"Doyle said she died because of her job."

"He _told_ you that?" She was beginning to reconsider her opinion of Doyle.

"No, I heard him when he thought I was sleeping."

"Oh." Maybe not such a bad guy after all. "Do you know what she did? Sometimes, mommies have jobs that are completely separate from them being a mommy. Like, my mommy has an art gallery where she puts up really old and sometimes kind of creepy art stuff. But most of it's pretty. As long as it's not trying to turn people into zombies or anything."

"My mommy made bad stuff go away."

It was then that Buffy decided that all prophecies must've been written by three-year-olds. When it came to cryptic, nobody could hold a candle to a little kid.

"Was she a nurse or a doctor or something?" Buffy asked, hoping to coax a little more definitive information from the child. Maybe if she knew more about Holly's background, they'd be able to figure out exactly what it was this Maria was after her for.

Holly only shook her head.

This was another line of questioning that was getting them absolutely nowhere. Plus, it boasted the added disadvantage of getting Buffy thinking about home, and her mom, and the fact that she still had no idea what could've happened to Giles. Thinking of her Watcher inevitably dragged her thoughts back to his houseguest, and very quickly, both Buffy and Holly were lost in their glum musings.

She didn't want to admit it, but Spike's offhand admission about fucking her into being nicer had sliced deeply, deeper than should've been safe to confess. They'd gone into the physical with clear heads about the absence of any sort of real relationship between them, but somewhere during the course of the night, between whispering things against her skin that not even Angel had admitted and pulling her back to the bed to fall asleep in his arms, she'd begun to suspect, maybe even hope, that she'd been wrong. The doubts had lingered when she'd woken, but while the light of day had seemed to bring with it a clarity of their situation that had been lacking in the shadows between his sheets, Buffy wondered how truthful it had been.

Well, she _had_ wondered. Right up until Spike shot off his mouth and shocked her back into remembering just what he was.

She almost jumped when a tentative hand came to rest on her leg. Looking up, Buffy saw Holly inching her ways forward, closer to the Slayer and further out on the shaking limb. "Wait," she instructed the child. Shifting, she dropped back down to the ground, and then reached up to take the little girl into her arms.

Holly slithered through her embrace to land with a soft plop. "I got snow in my shoe," she complained.

Bending down, Buffy ran her fingers along the girl's ankle, tucking her pants tighter into her boots. "Do you want to go in?" she asked. She wasn't sure what answer she wanted to hear. The prospect of facing Spike again wasn't exactly a thrilling one.

"No."

"Wanna go exploring?"

"OK."

They headed off in a direction they hadn't yet gone, the cabin disappearing behind them. The companionship was nice, but still left Buffy with too much quiet time to resume her disloyal thoughts, and so she decided to give one last go at digging some info out of the little girl.

"Did you and Doyle talk a lot when you were coming here?" It seemed like a nice, neutral question; no way could there be anything wig-worthy about it, Buffy reasoned.

Holly's eyes were large and solemn as she looked up at Buffy. "Doyle's a ghost," she said simply.

_So_ not the answer she was expecting to hear. "You think that means he can't talk?" she joked, hoping being light-hearted about it would help hide her surprise. She hadn't thought Holly knew the truth about Doyle; what else did she know? "I got the impression he does it a lot."

"He told me about you and Spike. He told me you were going to take care of me now."

_And I'm doing _such _a good job of it, too._

"Doyle said you were both good at taking care of little girls and that I shouldn't be scared if you guys were there."

"He said that?" _How did we get to talking about Spike again?_

"Didn't Spike take care of you when you were hurt?"

Every question was just dredging her deeper into a world of so-not-wanting-to-go-there, making Buffy's head spin with images of blond vampires who mocked her mood, and cradled her to sleep, and wanted her dead just to save her life. "Yeah, he did," she replied slowly.

"Spike doesn't have a mommy, either. He told me so."

"Oh?" She shouldn't be surprised that Spike had shared such details with the little girl. After all, he'd been chockfull of surprises ever since they'd had the accident. "Why don't you tell me what else Spike told you?"

-----

She hadn't wanted to take a break from her search, but her stomach had other thoughts, growling in protest when the hour stretched past one and she still had yet to find anything definitive that might help her pinpoint where the accident had occurred. It wouldn't do Buffy any good if Joyce passed out from hunger, and so she reluctantly returned to the car, driving back to where she was staying.

The small town she was stuck in didn't have a McDonald's she could pretend to eat healthily at, the hotel barely hospitable enough for sleeping. Instead, it boasted a one-stop grocery store, a gas station with a single pump, and a country-western bar with the unfortunate moniker of "The Prickly Pine Cone." For some reason, Christmas Eve hours already seemed to be in effect, leaving Joyce only the option of the bar if she didn't want to go cruising down the highway for something else.

She'd just be careful about what she ordered, she decided.

The interior was nearly deserted, the only other occupants the bartender and a dark-haired young man standing at the juke box. When she entered, Joyce paused to let her eyes adjust to the dark, then flashed a tight smile to the man when he nodded at her, carefully avoiding his eyes as she walked over to the bar.

"Do you serve food here?" she asked.

"It's food," came the reply. He was probably her age, but looked a decade older, three days worth of stubble coarsening his face, watery blue eyes slightly bloodshot. "Don't know how edible it is."

"I'm going to guess you don't handle your own marketing," she joked, but the only response she got was a chuckle from behind her. Joyce sobered and pulled out her wallet. "What exactly do you have?"

After placing an order for wings and fries, she waited while he ran to the back to fetch the bottled water she'd requested. It took only a moment before she felt the presence at her elbow.

"Must be car trouble."

With a frown, Joyce looked at the young man who'd slid onto the stool next to her, his eyes bright even in the murk, a friendly smile curling his lips. "Excuse me?" she asked.

"Car trouble," he repeated, and this time she was certain she heard the accent in his voice. "That's why you're here, right? No other reason a lovely lady such as yourself would be in this hole the day before Christmas if you didn't have to be."

She smiled, in spite of herself. "Is that _your_ excuse?" Joyce countered. "Because you don't exactly sound local."

"Never judge a book by its cover."

"So you _are_ local."

"Now, did I say that?"

She was saved from replying when the bartender returned with her water, and was about to pass over the twenty to pay for everything when the young man held up his hand.

"Let me," he said, reaching for his back pocket. "Consider it a Christmas gift."

"Thank you, but no," Joyce insisted. She passed over the money, keeping her eyes forward, and then took her water to a corner booth when she got her change, hoping that would be enough to let him know she wanted to be alone.

It wasn't.

"So, if it's not your car letting you down," he said cheerfully, stopping at the edge of the opposite bench, "it must be family that's got you in town." Her shock must've registered on her face, and he slid onto the seat, extending his hand in a belated greeting. "My name's Doyle, by the way…"

To be continued in Chapter 24: Have a Cup of Cheer…


	24. Have a Cup of Cheer

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Holly have spent a bonding day outside, while Joyce has encountered Doyle when she took a lunch for break…

-----

He was actually quite charming, if a little obvious in his flattery, and Joyce found herself relaxing in Doyle's presence long before her food came out. After his initial assessment of her purpose, Doyle had promptly dropped the subject, switching instead to expound on the shortcomings of the juke box, and she'd sat and commiserated good-naturedly on the negative effects of country music on holiday spirit. Mentioning Christmas reminded her of how he'd evaded her earlier observation about his presence in the bar, but Joyce waited until after her food had arrived before broaching the topic again.

"So, why are _you_ in the middle of nowhere on the day before Christmas?" she asked, as she nibbled on one of the celery sticks that accompanied her wings. "Don't you have family you'd rather be spending time with?"

He shrugged. "Family's a relative term," Doyle said affably. His fingers kept playing with the long-necked bottle of beer that he'd ordered but had yet to touch. "And what I do means I move around a lot. Not that I wouldn't _want_ to be with them, mind you. It's just…sometimes time's not exactly the most agreeable of mistresses."

Joyce's smile was self-deprecating as she shook her head. "I think I owe you an apology," she said, unable to quite meet his eyes.

"Oh? Why's that?"

"I'm afraid I jumped to a…wrong conclusion about you. I'm sorry."

His laughter rang throughout the bar, engaging her even in her discomfort. "Lemme guess," he said. "You thought I was a philandering ne'er-do-well, with nothing better to do with his Noel than to have a cup of his favorite cheer down at the local watering hole, am I right?" His smile only broadened at her bright flush, and he reached forward to pat her hand in conciliation. "There's a time you wouldn't have been wrong, Joyce. But don't you be selling those instincts of yours short. They could come in handy some day, mark my words."

She ate a fry as she weighed her next words. "Is that why you're not drinking your beer?" she said carefully.

As she expected, his grin faltered, his bright eyes falling to the mouth of his bottle with a wistfulness it was impossible to ignore. "Would love to, that's for sure," Doyle said. "Just…can't." With a forced laugh, he shook off the mantle of the falling mood and pushed the drink away. "So, your turn," he said. "What's your dreadful secret? Have you skipped out on family festivities to hide away in here?"

"I don't have family here. I'm staying at the hotel across the street."

"Voluntarily? You're a brave woman, Joyce Summers."

The last thing she'd wanted when he sat down was spill out her troubles to a stranger, but Doyle's open face and easy admission regarding his own history made her believe that he might be someone who'd understand. "I'm trying to find my daughter," she said. "She's missing."

"That sounds like you should be sitting at the sheriff's office, not here with me."

"I tried that. They weren't exactly…cooperative." Haltingly, Joyce told the story of the accident, leaving out the more pertinent details on what exactly her teenaged daughter was doing with a man old enough to be her father, and ending with her aborted attempts to find the exact site. "I know she's out there," she finished with more vehemence than she wanted. "And I'm not going to just sit back and do nothing while the local police pretend she's not."

Doyle nodded in understanding, though his gaze was thoughtful. "And it was just her and this teacher of hers in the car?" he asked. When Joyce visibly hesitated, he coaxed, "Come on. Who am I going to tell? I'm just a ghost in this town as far as the rest of 'em are concerned."

"There _was_ someone else," she conceded. "A...an acquaintance, but…"

"Have you asked about him? Maybe he showed up at the hospital or something."

Joyce laughed. "No, Spike's not exactly the type to _go_ to the hospital. Even if he broke his back."

"Spike, huh? Sounds like the name of the family dog, not someone with a fetish for pain."

"No, though I wouldn't be shocked to find out he had a studded collar to go with his leather jacket."

"So, this Spike. He the type to just up and walk away from your daughter? Or, would he stick around to make sure she's safe and sound?"

So lost in the considerations his questions provoked, Joyce didn't notice the narrowing of Doyle's eyes as he waited for her answers. "I don't know," she said. "Generally speaking, I know he's not the type to give up on someone he loves, but he and Buffy…well, things between them can get a little…prickly."

"Prickly…bad? Or prickly…they'd rather be---?"

She held up her hand to cut him off before he could finish the thought. "Don't go there," Joyce warned. "This is my daughter we're talking about. I'm still in denial that she lost her virginity in the first place."

"But you don't think he'd do something as rash as…hurt her, do you?"

For the first time, she saw the solemnity in the young man's aspect, and stiffened as she pulled away. "No," Joyce said slowly. "That's not possible." She'd said too much. There was something too attentive in his queries, an interest that spoke more of common courtesy. What had she volunteered that could've provoked his response?

"But you don't trust him."

"I didn't say that."

"So you _do_ trust him."

"No. It's just…it's complicated."

"Kids always are." He'd retreated into his thoughts with her dismissive statements, and she watched him have some sort of internal debate with himself. He had the sort of face that made it impossible for him to hide his feelings, she realized, but recognizing that discussion of Spike and Buffy made him pensive did nothing to alleviate her growing concern.

"Listen," Doyle said, sliding from his seat, "I'm just going to run to the little boy's room for a second." Fishing around in his pockets, he dug out some change and dropped it to the table. "Find something on the jukebox that's not so depressing, would you? I think the two of us need some solid Christmas spirit to cheer us up."

When he disappeared through the doors that led to the restrooms, Joyce took only a moment to make her decision to leave. She was wasting too much time here; every second she wasn't searching was a second Buffy could need her.

"Can I get these to go, please?" she asked the bartender as she stood up. Grabbing her coat, she glanced at the restrooms. It would be rude to just disappear on Doyle. If he came out while she waited for her food to be wrapped, she'd just say her goodbyes and be done with him. At least by asking about Spike, he'd sparked a new avenue of searching for her.

She hovered by the back exit as the bartender cleared her plate away. There, she heard the unmistakable sound of muffled voices from the restrooms, and frowned, taking a step closer. A female. And…Doyle?

Who was he talking to back there?

Joyce waited until the bartender had his back to her, and then slipped through the doors. On this side, the voices were clearer, and it was impossible not to hear what they were saying.

"…still here?"

"I said, I was working on it. She's still eating her lunch. You think you can just rush these things?" Doyle sounded exasperated with the woman who had to be in the bathroom with him. Joyce's nose wrinkled. At least she knew now they most likely weren't having sex in there.

"But she's going, right? You know she can't find them, Doyle. She would probably end up getting hurt, and how cooperative do you think Buffy would be then?"

Joyce froze.

Buffy.

They were talking about Buffy.

He knew where Buffy was.

Or the woman he was with did.

"I'll make sure she goes, all right? It's just…" The restroom fell silent, quiet for so long that Joyce was almost ready to push the door open and pray they hadn't stopped their conversation because one of them was using the facilities. "She makes it sound that Buffy and Spike won't work together if it's just the two of them. How can we be sure---?"

"We can be sure." There was something calming about the woman's voice, a certainty that made Joyce hesitate to interrupt. "You saw them, Doyle. Are you going to tell me that you honestly believe that Spike would do _anything_ to hurt Buffy? Or Holly? I've been telling you guys all along. There's a lot more to him than you realize. You just didn't get the benefit of knowing that side of Spike."

"And you did."

"You have to trust me. Buffy is perfectly safe with Spike. They're both stubborn as hell, and it might look like they want to kill each other, but as long as they don't stop talking, we'll be OK."  
She heard Doyle chuckle. "I didn't get the impression talking was what Spike had in mind. Did you see the mistletoe?"

"Yeah, I had to talk Jenny out of going to the Powers to ask for another storm to knock it down. She doesn't like Spike being there at all."

"I think if Joyce knew they were shacked up together, she might have a word or two to say about that particular matter, too."

"Which is why Mrs. Summers has to go back to Sunnydale. Doyle, you have to stop worrying about Spike and Buffy. I've got them under control. Your job? Go take care of Mrs. Summers. If you can't get her to leave, at least stall her for as long as you can. Maybe you can find out what Giles said to her."

Joyce darted back into the main room and to her booth when she heard the doorknob start to turn on the bathroom. She'd been right; something _was_ going on, and not only did it involve Giles, but it had Buffy stuck somewhere with Spike and someone named Holly. At least she knew Buffy was all right, but she didn't like being so deliberately manipulated. Did Doyle and his girlfriend really think she would just give up on her daughter so easily?

Though she smiled when Doyle slid onto the seat opposite her, an apology about taking so long spilling effortlessly from his lips, Joyce's face was closed when she nodded back.

Obviously, they didn't have kids. Otherwise, they wouldn't have made such a foolish assumption about Joyce backing off. She would fight to the death to ensure Buffy was safe from harm.

-----

It was a subdued Buffy who nudged the front door of the cabin open with her hip, her eyes burning from the sudden change in heat, her cheeks tingling as feeling began to slowly melt back into them. She blinked twice as she adjusted to the switch in brightness, and then frowned when she saw the empty living room.

"Don't tell me. You killed her for real this time, didn't you, Slayer?"

She jerked at the sound of Spike's voice, head swiveling to see him leaning against the loft railing. His muscled arms gleamed beneath his black tee, and she could've sworn there were fresh scratches marring his biceps. Instinctively, her grip tightened around the child she held. "She's sleeping," Buffy whispered, tearing her gaze away as she headed for the bedroom. "I'm just going to put her down."

He was stepping out of the bathroom, slipping something she couldn't quite see into his pocket, when she re-emerged, and Buffy stopped in her tracks when remnants of her conversation with Holly began echoing inside her head. The talk hadn't gone exactly as she had expected, leaving the Slayer glad that the child had fallen asleep on the long trek back to the cabin.

_"He said he thought you were going to die."_

_"Huh? He said what?"_

_"Spike said he thought you were---."_

_"I heard that part. What were you two talking about that you were talking about me dying?"_

_"I told him I was scared sometimes."_

_"Scared of me dying?"_

_"No. That's what Spike's scared of."_

_That had shocked Buffy into silence._

_"Buffy?"_

_"Yeah?"___

_"Why does Spike hate ducks? Is it because they quack?"_

_"What? Spike doesn't…Why would you think that?"_

_"He said so. He said him caring about you hurt his head and that he hated the pair of ducks."_

_It took Buffy a moment to realize what she was saying, but it did nothing to loosen the fist that must've magically burst through her chest to start squeezing her heart. "I think it's just a vampire thing," she'd explained, dropping her hand to absently pat Holly's head. "Or maybe just the fact that Spike's always been a little bit weird."_

"You look cold," Spike observed with a casual sweep over her body. He didn't let it linger as he sauntered to the kitchen. "Should probably do something 'bout that before you…" He cut himself off with a shake of his head, disappearing momentarily behind the refrigerator door before coming out again with a blood bag and turning his back to her.

"I'm just going to…clean up," Buffy said slowly, peeling her coat from her shoulders. She wasn't sure what she'd expected on her return. He'd fed Holly before she went out, and Buffy'd not even bothered to look at him before fleeing herself, though he hadn't tried very hard to get her attention. She supposed she probably expected him to be asleep, and she'd just try and deal with him when the need arose. She certainly hadn't expected this distant…politeness.

She froze in the bathroom's entrance, her hand halfway to the light switch.

There was no need for further illumination. Scattered throughout the room were more than a dozen candles, of varying shapes and sizes, all lit, all casting their dancing incandescence across the shadowed walls and floor. The sultry air made her nose twitch, and it took Buffy a long second to realize she was smelling some of the bath crystals she'd been secreting away to take back to Sunnydale with her.

Hesitantly, she took a step toward the full tub, hearing the bubbles that skimmed the water's surface fizzing faintly as they settled into oblivion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pile of her clothes carefully folded on the top of the toilet, a fresh towel draped within easy reach of the bath's edge, and a tray with a mug of hot chocolate on the floor.

"Been topping it up to keep it warm."

Buffy whirled to see Spike outlined in the doorway, his face hidden by the darkness. "Why?" she blurted.

He stiffened at the abruptness of her tone, and for a second, she thought he was going to leave. "Thought you'd like it, is all," Spike finally said, his voice taut. "Didn't mean---."

"It's great. Thank you."

Her gratitude took him by surprise. His head ducked, hiding his face even further, and Buffy had to fight the urge to close the distance between them and force him to meet her gaze again.

"Take as long as you want," he said quietly. "I'll keep an ear out for the little one so that you can relax."

As he turned away, all the doubts she'd had about their fight that morning went scuttling to the back of her mind, leaving Buffy only with the need to not let him go just yet. "Are you OK?" she asked. When he glanced up at her in confusion, she gestured toward his marked arms, only then noticing that he had additional abrasions on his knuckles. "You didn't lose a fight with the Christmas tree, did you?"

He smiled at her small joke, but shook his head. "'S'nothin'," Spike replied. "They'll be gone before you get out of the tub, I'll venture. And you? You're not too much the worse for wear from your little recreation…are you?"

When he looked her over this time, the examination was more protracted, his eyes caressing each hidden curve of her body as surely as if he'd used his hands. Each slide made Buffy shiver, and she wrapped her arms across her front in an attempt to ward away the trembling she knew was coming.

"It was fun," she admitted. "We even found a lake that's all frozen over and pretended to go ice skating on it."

"Explains why the both of you are so knackered then."

"I'm not so…" She blushed at his raised eyebrow. "OK, so I'm a little tired. Kind of hard to understand how someone so little can have so much energy. But…what about you? Were you able to get any sleep like you wanted? That was the whole purpose of getting us out of the house…right?"

For some reason, her words made him retreat. "I'll do," he said cryptically, and stepped back into the door's frame. "Take your bath, Buffy. Don't fancy havin' to mind the both of you if you get yourself sick again."

And with the soft click of the latch, Spike was gone.

-----

She luxuriated in the scented water until the first of the candles began to flicker. Unlike her last bath, Buffy didn't sleep through this one. She couldn't. Her mind was too awhirl with details of the night she'd shared with Spike, and their ensuing fight, and her day with Holly, and her unexpected disappointment that he hadn't joined her. That had been her first instinct when she'd seen the room. Rather than the apology she now believed it to be, Buffy had thought it was another of Spike's attempts to seduce her into thinking with her libido and not her head.

It couldn't be, though. Otherwise, he would never have left.

But…even with the unspoken concession, his words from the morning still smarted. She _wanted_ to believe that they'd been prompted merely by the heat of the moment---because, oh god, they were _so_ good at forgetting their situation and getting lost in back-and-forth snipes---but until they talked about it, there would always be that niggle in the back of Buffy's brain that Spike's statement had been truth.

The prospect of talking about it, however, terrified her. Spike was right. She liked her little bubble of denial. She liked being able to put things into their proper slots of good and evil, and she was beginning to more than suspect that Spike belonged in neither.

Holly had her own opinions on the subject. For the little girl, Spike was someone to be trusted, intuitively it would seem. Was it just ignorant naivete, or was it the wisdom of uncorrupted youth?

She was thoughtful as she toweled off, enjoying the textured rub of the terry against her skin. When she saw the black lace bra and panties set Spike had selected for her, Buffy couldn't help but smile and shake her head at his predictability. It didn't matter that he'd chosen an innocuous pair of jeans and turtleneck sweater to wear over them; the fact that he still picked the same underwear he'd teased her about on that first day spoke volumes.

The sound of Holly's chatter greeted her when she opened the door, and she glanced over to see the child sitting with Spike at the dining room table. The pair sat opposite each other, with what looked to be every glass in the cabin in two semi-straight rows between them. In Spike's hand, he held one of the Jack Daniels bottles Doyle had brought, topping off a cup in front of him as he listened to Holly finish whatever it was she'd been describing.

The creak of a floorboard beneath her foot alerted him to her presence, and Buffy froze when Spike looked up to see her. "You look…better," he drawled, his gaze devouring her in no uncertain terms. He waved with the bottle. "Come and join the festivities. Moptop and me were just gettin' down to playing some Christmas Eve games."

Her incredulity rose as she approached the table. "You're doing _shots_?" Buffy said in amazement as she gaped at the glasses. The scent of the whisky made her nose tickle. "Spike, she's _three_."

"Which is why she's got hot chocolate." Rolling his eyes, he turned away from the Slayer and leaned across the table toward Holly. "_Told_ you she'd have a stick up her ass 'bout it," he mock-whispered.

Holly giggled before turning bright eyes to Buffy. "Do you want to play?" she asked.

Spike didn't allow her to answer. "'Course she doesn't," he said. He set the Jack aside as he leaned back in his chair, one hand toying with the cup he'd just filled, the other hooking through one of his belt loops, inevitably drawing Buffy's gaze down to his sprawling legs. "That would mean admitting she leapt before she looked, which goes against her precious Slayer code."

It was a dare, and Buffy knew it. Lifting her chin to meet the taunt in his eyes, she deliberately reached for the whisky bottle. "So, have you completely raided the cupboards?" she asked. "Or are there enough glasses to let me in on the fun?"

To be continued in Chapter 25: Up on the Housetop…


	25. Up on the Housetop

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy, Spike, and Holly are about to celebrate Christmas Eve, snowbound-style, while Joyce has overheard Doyle talking to someone about the fact that Buffy is alive and kicking…

-----

Truth be told, Doyle was rather pleased with himself. The girls' instructions had been simple and straightforward, and outside of the one glitch where he'd panicked on Joyce's opinion on Buffy and Spike, he didn't think his scheme to get Mrs. Summers back on the road to Sunnydale was working out too badly. In fact, knowing that she was still sitting opposite him with full awareness the sun was shrinking on the horizon was cause for celebration, in his book. Too bad he couldn't have a drink to do so.

He watched as she closed her cell phone and set it down on the table. "Nobody matching Spike's description has shown up at any of the nearby hospitals," Joyce said.

Doyle nodded in what he hoped appeared like genuine sympathy. Upon his return to the table, she had probed his thoughts on following the Spike lead, and when it was apparent it was a bone she wasn't going to stop gnawing, he'd made the suggestion to check around anywhere he might've gone to for medical assistance. "Just to be safe," he'd said. He'd even tossed out the possibility of other hotels---."

"Not that I think that your daughter would do anything she shouldn't," he'd assured hastily when Joyce appeared to take what he was saying the wrong way. "I'm sure she's a perfectly well-behaved girl. Look at who she's got for a role model." His most charming smile had seemed to placate her, but not enough to shake loose the idea, and she'd ended up agreeing that maybe his advice was the best for Buffy.

Frankly, he didn't care how many people she called. As long as she didn't go back out on the road to look for the Slayer, his job was done.

"Where are you staying?" Joyce asked.

The question came out of the blue, but Doyle grinned to cover up how it had startled him. "I'll be hitting the road again here fairly soon," he said. "Places to go, people to see, you know. My partners will want me to be checking in with them for updates on how things are going."

"You never actually told me what it is you do."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "My job's all milk and water. Nothing to be writing home about."

"But it keeps you busy."

Her sudden interest in him and not Buffy or Spike made Doyle nervous, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat. "You could say that," he answered warily.

"I could also say that I think you're a lousy liar. Would that be very far from the truth?"

There was no guile in her face, and her eyes were unblinking as she waited for him to respond. It was a patented mother look, and not one Doyle had been subjected to since---well, since the girls had guilted him into getting Joyce Summers back to Sunnydale. He only wondered what he'd done that had given him away.

"Now that's not a very nice thing to say," he said. "And here I thought we were getting along so well."

"That was before I found out you were just playing me for some kind of sap," Joyce countered. She leaned far enough across the table to give them a sense of privacy, and circled his wrist with a tight grip. "I don't know what's going on here, or why it's so important for me to not be looking for Buffy and Spike, but something tells me that you have all the answers I need. I don't think either of us need to be going anywhere until you start telling me what in hell is going on."

Carefully, he pried away her fingers, casting a sideways glance at the bartender who seemed to be too busy watching a colorized version of "Miracle on 34th Street" on his small television behind the counter to notice them. "There's nothing to tell," Doyle said.

"Oh? So you're _not_ having clandestine bathroom meetings about Buffy and Spike? I must've forgotten to take my medication this morning because I could've sworn I heard a voice saying your job was to keep me from finding my daughter. Or was it to pry information out of me about Rupert? It wasn't completely clear from where I was standing."

Well, at least he knew now how she found him out.

Doyle sighed. "I don't suppose it'll do any good to just hear that your daughter's doing dandy, will it?" At her silence, he shook his head. "I didn't think so."

"Where is she? What happened? Is Spike with her? What happened to Rupert? Who exactly are you? And why are you trying to keep me from finding Buffy?"

Each question rose in volume, until by the last, even the bartender had torn his eyes away from his movie to glance in their direction. "Keep it down," Doyle hissed. "Trust me. You don't want that kind of attention."

"It is if it's going to give me the answers I want."

"It's going to get you kicked out of here, that's what it's going to do."

"Then maybe the police will listen to me. They can't just ignore me if I've got a witness who'll testify about Buffy."

"They'll just think you're a nutter, Joyce. I told you. I'm a ghost to these people around here. I meant that literally."

The disclosure did what he'd hoped. It shut her up. Of course, it also attracted the last person he wanted to see right now, and Doyle ducked his eyes at the form that materialized at the table's side.

"She overheard us," he volunteered before the new arrival could say anything. "What else was I to do?"

"I know," the young woman sighed. She smiled at the edgy astonishment in Joyce's face. "Hello, Mrs. Summers."

"You…he…" Reaching out, Joyce poked at Doyle's shoulder, wincing when her finger bent backwards against his flesh.

"Magic," he explained. "A necessary precaution for the job I needed to do."

"Who are you?" she asked, turning to the young woman. Joyce's pass at reconciling the ghost's solidity was determined when her hand moved right through the skirt that seemed so real, and she swallowed before adding, "Maybe that should be, _what_ are you?"

"We're friends," the young woman said quietly. "And there's a lot we need to tell you. Would it be all right…maybe we could talk about all this in your hotel room?"

For a moment, he wasn't sure what the elder Summers was going to do, but when the tentative nod finally came, he watched as his partner stepped aside to allow Joyce room to slide from her seat, giving her a wide berth when she began walking toward the door.

"Jenny's not going to like this," Doyle commented, rising to join his partner.

"Jenny hasn't liked _any_ of this since I got permission to include Spike," came the rejoinder. Together, they began following Joyce out. "Jenny's just going to have to live with it. Or you know…" She smiled at him when he chuckled at her small pun. "…not."

-----

"That's not fair." Buffy's voice seemed too loud in the growing heat of the cabin, though she didn't know if the added warmth was due to the roaring fire in the hearth or the effects of the whisky in her veins. Fire, she decided. _Can't get drunk on just a few shots._

Spike shrugged, an exercise in nonchalance, but the bright gleam in his eye was in direct opposition with his assumed aplomb. "It's pidge's call," he said. "Her turn, her pick."

"But it's not a game if you automatically win."

"It's not about who wins, pet. It's about who loses. You tellin' me you can't hold your breath longer than a three-year-old?"

She turned to Holly, who was watching the exchange with growing boredom. "Pick something else," Buffy instructed.

"Don't listen to her. You made your choice, you stick to your guns."

"Spike doesn't breathe. It's not a fair choice."

"Since when do I care about fair?"

"It's bad enough you're corrupting _me_. I'm not about to let you start in on an innocent little girl."

"Oh, so is _that_ the bug up your skirt, luv? Big Bad William has sullied the Slayer's honor? Boo bloody hoo."

"Get over yourself."

"Funny, but it's just a mite more pleasurable when _you_ get over me."

"I have to pee."

Both blond heads swivelled to stare at the little girl they had forgotten about as she hopped down from her chair and walked over to the bathroom, closing the door shut behind her and leaving them in silence.

"Guess that's that," Buffy declared. "Game called on account of rain." Before she could stop herself, the giggles erupted from her throat, and she dropped her head onto the table as her shoulders shook.

Grabbing the half-empty whisky bottle, Spike rose and began gathering the glasses. "That's it. I'm cutting you off."

"Why?" Her voice was muffled from where her face remained pressed to the wood.

"Someone's drunk."

"No, I'm not." She shook her head to accompany her denial, and then she abruptly sat back up, rubbing her forehead. "Ow."

"Guess it's a good thing you're such a lightweight, Slayer," he commented. He held the bottle up to the light, tilting it to watch the amber liquid inside run freefall against the glass. "This might just last me to the New Year after all."

"Why do you do that?"

The pout in her voice diverted his attention away from the alcohol and back to Buffy, a frown drawing his brows together. "Do what?"

"Call me Slayer. I don't walk around calling you 'vampire.'"

"'Cause I've already been told off once 'bout swearing in front of the tidbit."

"I'm serious, Spike."

"And you think I'm not?"

She was on her feet at that, closing the distance between them until she had backed him up against the counter. To his credit, he didn't shy away from the approach. In fact, he merely reached behind him to set the whisky down before folding his arms across his chest.

"I know you think this is all fun and games," Buffy continued. "Believe me, you've made yourself perfectly clear on the matter. But one of these days, someone could lose an eye or a liver or something, and then where would the fun be?" She poked him in emphasis. The desire to tell him exactly what she thought of his purpose in seducing her the night before---because that was how she was going to view it, damn it; if he wanted to fuck her to make her nicer, then he was damn well going to get the blame for it happening in the first place---had been building ever since she'd come out of the bathroom and settled in to play the silly shots dare game he and Holly had created. She'd had to refrain from saying anything during the game, though, even when it became obvious the two of them were conspiring to cheat against Buffy. There was no other way she could've lost so many of the rounds.

Spike was motionless. "I'm sure you've got a point in there somewhere," he drawled.

"My point…" She poked him again, but for the longest second as her fingertip pressed into his shirt, Buffy became transfixed with the memory of what lay beneath the black cotton, the way his skin had seethed against hers, stealing her heat as its own…the suggestion of its tang against her tongue when she'd been straddled behind him, tasting the sinew of his neck before she'd moved around to swallow down the head of his dripping cock. Unbidden, her breath began to quicken, and she jerked her hand away as she struggled to clear her head.

_What was I saying?_

_Oh, right. I was mad at him._

_Why was I mad at him?_

_Oh. Right._

"My point," Buffy repeated, this time just pointing a wary finger at him, "is that internal organs are fragile, and just because yours don't work anymore, doesn't mean you have the right to go messing with mine."

She tilted her chin, proud that she'd stated her opinion on the matter so clearly. Take that, stupid vampire, she thought. I can _so_ be a grown-up and tell you how I feel, even if you're being an obnoxious, conceited jerk.

The effect was spoiled, however, when her tongue seemed to stick out of its own volition and she turned to flounce away.

Spike's hand on her arm jerked her to a halt, more out of the fact that her head was suddenly dizzy than any force he might've exerted. "Did I miss the part where we stopped talkin' about the game and moved onto something else?" he asked. His eyes were dark as they searched her face, and Buffy noticed that he wasn't letting go of her, though she had already used the expanse of his chest to steady herself against the spinniness of the room.

"Oh, you mean I wasn't clear?" she stated in faux innocence. "I didn't make it one hundred percent proof positive what Buffy's intentions were? Wherever could I have learned _that_ little trick from?"

Yanking her arm away, she stumbled back against the table, but quickly righted herself. It felt good to say some of the things that had been tumbling around inside her head all day, and if Spike didn't get completely get it, well, then, that was his fault, wasn't it? He'd been all over the mood map ever since they woke up, with pit stops in the suburbs of snarky and distant downtown, to name just a few. Why did Buffy have to play by different rules?

"What the hell are you goin' on about?" Spike demanded. "If memory serves, _I'm_ the one who's got his head on straight in this scenario. Eighty-sixed your power trip, didn't I?"

"Which I _still_ don't get, by the way."

"Your problem. Not mine."

"No, _you're_ my problem, Spike. You, and your baths, and the saving me when I really didn't ask you to, and then conning Holly into thinking you _like_ her---."

"Leave the tidbit out of this."

His voice had dropped to a menacing level, but Buffy was oblivious to his rising ire. "Is it a thrall thing?" she went on. She was on a roll. "Did you learn that little trick from Drusilla? Offer up some sweet talk, and a few games which seem fun on the outside but on the inside turn her head all squishy, and she's falling at your feet, as if she doesn't know you're a killer, and dangerous, and would drain her dry if you didn't have a piece of plastic in your head that turns you into Spaz Boy if you even think about it?"

"I've never pretended to be anything I'm not."

"And yet, she still adores you. Worse, she _trusts_ you. And you're just going to rip her heart out because you're going to fail her, Spike. You're going to screw up, and Holly's going to get hurt, and you're not going to care that she put herself out there only to find out that it was all a ploy because all you're interested in is making your life easier."

And then he was there, and he was so close she had to lean back into the table to get some breathing room because his mouth was inches from hers, and his hands were rigid where they balled into fists on either side of her hips and all she wanted to do was touch him and taste him and devour him and feel him doing the same to her, and she hated that she still felt the weakness of the attraction even knowing what she did about how he felt about the whole matter.

"You might want to reconsider your logic, pet," Spike growled. "And be glad that your livelihood isn't contingent on you makin' with the Van Owen. Because you know _jack_ about what I'm interested in, and if you're goin' to bandy about ridiculous accusations about what makes my life _easier_, you might want to have a stake handy for when I decide to hell with my little chip problem and get rid of you, once and for all. Because there is _nothing_ easy in feeling what I do about you. _Nothing_."

His tongue poked out beneath his teeth with his over-enunciation of that last word, a vicious score along her flesh even if Buffy wasn't sure that had been his intention when he uttered it. Confusion made her swallow to try and dispel the dry mouth that had cottoned her mouth, and she blinked more than once in a vain attempt to regain some clarity.

"We were talking about Holly," she managed.

"Were we?"

"I was."

"Don't think so, pet."

"You know what's in my head now?"

"I've got no bloody clue what's in your head any more. I just know what comes past those lying lips of yours."

"I don't lie!"

"Should I step back now before you poke my eye out, Pinocchio?"

"I don't lie!"

"Repeating yourself don't make it true."

"I don't---." She cut herself off at his raised eyebrow, and shoved him away. "I hate you."

Her declaration was meant to put an end to the discussion, once and for all. She didn't want this. Holly would be walking out any minute now, and she'd see the two of them fighting, and all Buffy's work in being the girl's friend today would get tossed out the window because no way would the kid take Spike's side against _anything_, even if the stupid vampire was dead wrong, and a jerk, and---.

She turned to stare at the bathroom door. "Is it just me or has Holly been in there for an awful long time?" she queried.

It was an observation that apparently hadn't occurred to Spike before Buffy made it, and she padded after him when he marched to the door. For a moment, his hand lifted to knock, but when he caught the Slayer watching him with raised brows, he grimaced and wrenched the door open.

"Time's up---," he started to say.

Buffy plowed into Spike's back when he stopped in the doorway, reeling slightly as she grabbed the jamb. "Did we switch to playing statues?" she asked, and then peeked around his shoulder.

"Looks like someone's had her fill of celebrating," Spike said softly.

Holly was on the toilet, her pants around her ankles, her body slumped as her chin rested on her chest. In spite of the uncomfortable position, the child was fast asleep, her slow and even breathing betraying her body's slumber.

"How does she do that?" Buffy whispered. She watched as Spike stepped forward and crouched in front of Holly to peer into her face.

"A little help here would be appreciated," he commented.

Quickly, the pair cleaned up the little girl, and though they moved and jostled her as needed to redress her, Holly never woke, not even mumbling when Spike lifted her into his arms.

"Must be nice," Buffy murmured, pushing back the hair that had fallen over Holly's cheek.

"What?" Spike asked.

"To be able to just give in like that," she replied. "Her body said it was time to sleep, so she went to sleep. Seems…easy."

He gave no reply, just looked at her for what felt like forever, before brushing past to take the child to her bed. Buffy followed after them, but when Spike disappeared into the bedroom, all the fight that had been wound throughout her body seemed to vanish.

Spike found her sitting in front of the fireplace, the poker laying forgotten in her hand, when he came back.

"Think the nipper's got the right idea," he said, falling onto the cushions of the couch. "A spot of sleep sounds like my idea of heaven, right about now."

"What're you complaining about?" Buffy replied. She didn't bother turning to look at him, continuing her fascination with the flames that leapt in the hearth. "You slept all day."

"If you say so." She heard him sniff. "What're you doin' to that fire?"

"I'm not doing anything."

Another sniff, and this time, the couch groaned as he shifted his weight on it. "Well, what did you do while I was puttin' the girl down?"

"I told you, I didn't do anything." Buffy jerked out of his way as Spike appeared at her side, taking the poker from her grasp to poke at the charred logs. Immediately, a shower of sparks came spraying onto the floor, forcing both of them to scuttle away, but it was the accompanying cloud of smoke that caught Buffy's attention.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Spike was already heading to the door, grabbing his coat from where it was draped over a chair. "Something's blocking it," he replied. "Unless you feel like choking to death in your sleep, someone's got to clear the rubbish away."

She watched the door after he'd gone. It was things like _this_ that made her want to scream, she realized. Contradiction, after contradiction, after contradiction. If Spike was a normal vampire, he would've just kept his mouth shut, let Buffy and Holly die from asphyxiation by morning, and been free of whatever tethers he felt they were. But no. Instead, he was outside---.

There was a dull thud overhead, and Buffy tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling.

---make that _on the roof_, fixing the fireplace so that the Slayer and a child he should have absolutely no interest in could live another day. Vampires didn't do that.

And Slayers weren't supposed to care, but that was a proviso that was rapidly slipping into oblivion, even as Buffy listed all the reasons in her head that she shouldn't go after him.

-----

He did it more to get away from her. He hadn't been lying about something obstructing the flue, but taking care of it had been minor compared to his need to be free of the constant reminder of Buffy and her incessant metaphors where she came off as the injured party. She'd been edgy during the entire shots game that he and Holly had constructed, losing more often than was necessary, and Spike couldn't help but question whether or not she was deliberately using the alcohol as a means of escape.

If he had more than the two bottles, he knew he would've been doing that very thing.

He didn't get her. He'd swallowed his pride and apologized with the bath, even though he didn't know what the fuck he'd done wrong that morning, and still it wasn't good enough for Buffy. If she knew what he'd spent his day doing, would she still be mad? He didn't know. He didn't care.

Fuck.

Yes, he did.

That's what pissed him off so much.

Didn't mean he was going to give in to her whinging.

Maintaining his balance on the roof was harder with the ice that had crusted beneath the snow, and Spike had to grab onto the branches that hung overhead to keep himself steady as he made his way to the chimney. Even before he reached it, though, he could see what had blocked it up.

Like a thick finger beckoning to the devil, a tree limb had snapped from the weight of the snow, falling to the roof to become embedded in the chimney. Most of it extruded from the narrow opening, but there was enough inside to prevent the free flow of the smoke, hence the acrid scents he'd detected in the cabin. Planting his feet on either side of the stack, Spike reached through the prickly needles to grab the shaft, tugging it free and pushing it over the far edge. It disappeared from sight, landing with a muffled swish down below, and he wiped his hands on his jeans to get rid of the icy dirt.

"Wow. There really was something up here. I thought you were just kidding."

He stiffened at the sound of her voice. "Yeah, well, it's all safe as houses for Kris Kringle now, so you can just skedaddle back to your warm delusions and leave the Big Bad to finish the clean-up, all right?"

She deliberately stepped in front of him when he tried to retrace his steps back down, hands on either hip as she glared up at him. Moonlight filtered through the canopy above to turn Buffy's hair to silver, and Spike felt the familiar pull in his stomach at the smoky aspect in her eyes. So bloody beautiful. His fingers were twitching to touch her, and he almost growled aloud at his body's betrayal to his mood.

"Get back inside," he snarled instead. "You're goin' to fall on your ass and break your bloody neck out here."

"What makes me think you'd be the one to cushion my fall?" she accused.

"You don't watch it, I'll be the one who pushes you over," he warned.

"You couldn't do it."

"Could. Just can't because of the hardware, remember?"

"Was it worth it?" Buffy demanded. "Are you happy with yourself now?"

"For clearing the chimney? Yeah, I'm just rollin' in the aisles, can't you tell?"

"Stop it!" The force of her voice made her stumble on the slippery slope, and Spike's hand shot out automatically to catch her before she toppled over the side. She ended up pressed to his chest, only the faintest of alcoholic fumes still clinging to her breath as she tilted her head back to look at him.

"There," she stated, though her voice was barely a whisper. "That's what I'm talking about."

The familiarity of her pulse against him made his muscles relax of their own accord, and Spike sighed against the injustice of it all. "You're drunk, Buffy," he said quietly. "You're not makin' any sense."

"Then that makes two of us." Her eyes scanned his, but what she was looking for, he had no idea. "I don't get you, Spike," she said. "I thought…I mean, last night, it made sense, and it even made a sort of sense this morning, but then _you_ didn't make sense, or maybe too much, and then Holly, god, trying to get sense out of her is impossible because she's all about the you being scared which makes _no_ kind of sense, and I don't know if it's because she's three or really smart or really dumb or maybe all of the above, you know?" She stopped to breathe, and hung her head. "I really must be drunk because I have no idea what I just said."

Reaching out, Spike canted her head back up with a single finger beneath her chin. "Why did you come up here, pet?"

Her breath was a wispy cloud as she fought to find the words. "Because you make me hurt," she finally admitted.

His hand fell away, and his shoulders straightened. He should've known she'd only meant to drive the knife in a little deeper, but for a second there, Spike had actually believed she might say something real for a change.

"It all hurts," she was saying. "My head, and my heart, and I'm tired of trying to figure out why I _care_ that it hurts. I keep telling myself that you're evil, but then there's the bath and you being all thoughtful and---."

"Wait. Go back." Hope returned, and in that moment, Spike didn't hate it. "What was that bit 'bout your heart?"

"Oh, no, you don't." A warning finger waved in front of his face. "You know darn well what you did."

"If I did, would I be asking?"

"Yes, because you're _evil_ and you just want to make me stew in it."

"Humor me, Buffy. Let's pretend I have no bloody clue what you're talkin' about." He stuffed his traitorous hands deep into his duster's pockets, determined not to yield to the urge to just say to hell with his pride and grab her right there and then. "What, exactly, does your heart have to do with anything?"

She was going to run, he could tell, and this time, Spike was going to let her. He was tired of playing chase when it was barefacedly obvious that she wanted to be anywhere but around him. He had better things---.

"Because last night meant something to me," Buffy said quickly. Her heartbeat was pounding in his ears, against his skin, enlivening him when he'd thought he was past feeling. "And…I hate that it didn't to you. Are you satisfied now? You got what you wanted."

"And what was that?" His voice was hoarse. She couldn't be saying what he thought she was saying.

She also couldn't meet his eyes. "I care, all right?" Her arms hugged her body, as if to shield herself from his response. "You got me to care about you, you jerk."

To be continued in Chapter 26: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas…


	26. Twas the Night Before Christmas

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce has gone off with Doyle to find out what exactly is going on with Buffy, while a slightly drunken Slayer has followed Spike to the rooftop and confessed to him that their relationship means more to her than he thought…

-----

The roof shimmered in the moonlight, broken patches of snow blinding alongside the dark tile that peeked through the icy crust. Even standing still, Spike's balance was unsteady, but it wasn't the cabin's camber that forced his precarious stance. It was her words, pounding against him in vicious accompaniment with her body's rhythms, threatening to topple him from the peak, and he had to steel his spine in his resolve not to fall.

A resolution that was already wavering in the face of his naked need to believe her.

Spike coughed, clearing his throat. "Well," he drawled, more casually than he felt. "Juliet, you aren't."

It lit a fire somewhere inside Buffy, jerking her head up to glare at him in righteous fury. "And you think you're my idea of Romeo?" she snapped. "Wrong body temperature, for one---."

His tsking was a sharp slice through the crisp night air. "That argument only works on those who aren't familiar with a certain Slayer's romantic history," he chided. "Which would be neither of us, pet."

"This has nothing to do with the fact that you're a vampire!"

"So you're head over heels because of my sparkling personality? Funny, but that one's almost as hard to swallow."

Eyes bright.

Nostrils flaring.

A single beat where Buffy almost seemed to be vibrating from her barely controlled indignation.

And then…

"You think this is because I'm drunk, don't you? I'm _not_ drunk. I _told_ you that."

Spike lifted a single brow. "I believe we've already established that someone's verbal skills are a bit lacking at the moment. Not that that differs too wildly from when you're stone cold sober---."

"I can prove it to you."

"What, that you can talk?"

"That I'm not drunk." Gritted teeth now. She was approaching pissed off, which, while not his ideal state for her, was at least one he understood.

"And how exactly do you propose we do that, Buffy?" Spike said. "Have you walk the straight and narrow so you can tumble nogginfirst into the drifts?" He shook his head. "Don't think so. Not about to get suckered into _that_ role again."

Her confusion made her sparkle, a bundle of jittery nerves that electrified his mood, made him relish the confrontation even if the reasons for it were still cowering in fear of exposure. "Why are you even arguing with me about this?" Buffy demanded. "I thought you'd be all floaty and gloaty about getting into my head."

"Oh, I dunno. Might have something to do with gettin' treated like a bloody pariah almost since you rolled outta my bed this morning," he countered. "You've got more moods than Sybil, so pardon me if I'm not exactly sure which one you're channelling at the moment."

"I just told you I cared about you."

"And downstairs, you said you hated me."

"We were fighting!"

"And we're not now?"

"No! Yes! _No!_"

Spike smirked at her in satisfaction, though it didn't quite reach all the way into his heart. "Believe that settles the debate on the power of your oratory," he stated.

With a wordless cry of disgust, Buffy threw her hands up in defeat, beginning to whirl to escape his presence only to stop in mid-spin when her heel started to slip on the ice. She fell to her knees, scrabbling for a hold as she kept herself from falling further, and shot Spike a withering glance when he unconsciously took a step toward her to help.

"I don't know why I expected any different from you," she grumbled as she equalized her weight along the peak. She wasn't rising back to her feet, choosing instead to sit and stare out through the skeletal trees. "Once a self-centered meanie, always a self-centered meanie."

_Ah, the eloquence of inebriation. How the mighty have fallen._

With her back to him, Spike couldn't see her features, but the tone of her voice made that unnecessary. For a long moment, he just regarded Buffy, the bow of her head as she stared out at the forest, the curve of her ass where it melded to the bend in the roof, and each passing second watered down the ire that had burned so brightly in his chest during their discourse. He couldn't believe her, of course, as much as he might want to, but hearing each jagged breath being wrenched from her body as if he was clawing it from her lungs himself was more than he could stand.

Slowly, Spike inched his way forward, crouching when he was within a foot of Buffy to sit directly behind her. She stiffened when she felt his thighs brush against hers, but the tension was short-lived after he'd pulled her back to lean against his chest.

"Listen," he said, and his voice was an even modulation that had soothed more than one ruffled feather in the past. "I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't want to believe you, luv, but we both know it's the Jack doin' the talkin' at the moment, not you. It's got you goin' in circles and frankly, I'm gettin' more than a little dizzy trying to keep up."

"You're not the only one," she muttered.

He smiled, and let his hand drop to begin stroking the back of hers where it rested between her legs. It was easier to bare his thoughts to her when those green eyes weren't boring into him, daring Spike to rise above his demon, gloating when he failed. And if she didn't remember a word of what he said when morning rolled around, all the better.

"I didn't get any sleep today," he continued, "for the thought of you, and what you and me might be together. How great that could be, even if it's scary as hell."

"Yeah," she whispered, and the single word wrapped around his heart and squeezed. "I did a lot of thinking today, too. That's why---."

"Let me finish." The temptation of her throat where he could see it beneath the lapel of her coat made his mouth water, but Spike held firm, pulling away from the obvious contact to lessen the allure. "Tried to make amends with the bath and such, but it's a little too late for gestures, isn't it? Can't very well hope that you'd feel the same way, not in any _real_ deal where it's not just about the sex. I've been the Big Bad to you for too long for _that_ to happen, so really, it's nobody's fault but my own."

She twisted around to face him, and the moon behind her shadowed Buffy's face from scrutiny. "I can't believe you're actually apologizing," she said.

"What? No, no apology. I'm just sayin'…" But the enormity of what she'd said stuttered to a halt at the edge of Spike's thoughts, and carefully, he reeled it back in, turning it over and weighing it against the tirades and the nonsense and the so-called admissions that had been spilling from Buffy's lips for the past half hour. "What is it you think I need to be apologizing for?" he asked warily, eyes narrowing in anticipation of her response.

She stiffened, but didn't turn away, small chin jutting forward in a determined show of pride. "For trying to use sex with me as a way to make staying here easier for you," she said.

And then it clicked, and the morning replayed in all its awful Technicolor glory as he saw it through the eyes of a confused Slayer, and heard his "nice" gibe as something other than the joke he'd intended. He wanted to laugh, and scream, and sob, and shout at the realization and her stubbornness and her innate sense of being able to automatically assume the worst. But instead, he just yanked her to him, pressing his mouth to hers in a quick kiss.

She spluttered against the onslaught, and pulled away, her fingers going automatically to her swollen lips. "You're not getting sex for giving me the brush-off," Buffy warned, and, when his head ducked for another caress, braced her other hand against his chest to stop him from repeating the action.

Spike grinned. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders with this new understanding, and if it weren't for the icy snow seeping through the denim to blister his ass in cold, he'd think he was floating somewhere above the trees. "Let me give you a spot of advice, pet," he said cheerfully. "Next time you get your knickers in a twist 'bout something you think I'm sayin', don't turn tail before callin' me on it. Odds are, I'm just flapping my gums and you'll save us both a heap of headaches by getting the truth up front."

The sudden shift in his mood brought a flummoxed frown to Buffy's brow. "Huh?"

"C'mon." With a quick yank, he'd hauled her to her feet, dragging her down the length of the roof to the edge before she could protest against it. He turned a wicked smile to her, and, curling his arm around Buffy's waist to mold her to his hip, asked, "Feel like flying?"

She didn't have a chance to respond.

Lightning reflexes had Spike leaping to the ground below, Buffy tucked safely against him so that she wouldn't take the weight of the jump on any of her previously injured limbs. She fell against him when they landed, knocking him back into the snow, but rather than scramble away, she stared at him in bewilderment, still unsure what exactly had heralded this mania that now seemed to possess him.

"I thought I was the drunk one," she commented.

Strong fingers cupped her ass, grinding her pelvis against his growing erection. "Don't tell me that wasn't fun," Spike admonished.

"That wasn't fun."

She yelped in surprise when he pushed her up. "Guess we'll have to try it again," he announced, entwining her fingers with his.

Buffy stopped him before he could make the jump back up onto the roof. "Not that playing Batman and Robin isn't at least something different," she said, "but where in the world did this come from? Just two minutes ago you were all apologetic and broody---."

"Angel broods. I ponder."

"Whatever. Still doesn't tell me what your sitch is, Schizo Boy."

His head tilted as he contemplated her. "You were right," Spike finally said.

"I know." Beat. "About what?"

"I do owe you an apology, so mark this day, pet, 'cause you won't be gettin' another." When she tried to distance herself from his grasp, Spike drew her closer, wrapping his coat around the pair of them to cocoon them from the elements. "But first…did you mean it? About caring. The truth, now."

The alcohol in her system softened her features, he realized, made it even more impossible for Buffy to hide from him the dangerous thoughts and emotions that commanded her existence. Gazing down at her, he witnessed the trepidation return, fear of another rejection battling with the proud backbone that made her so formidable, and gleefully watched the fearlessness win.

"Yes," Buffy admitted.

"But…" He reached up, stroked the silver-blonde hair away from the eyes he so desperately needed to see. "…this morning, luv. The pushing me away. I thought it was because you _didn't_, see? You wouldn't let me touch you, and after last night…did you _really_ think I'd be willing to just walk away after what went on between us? Don't rightly understand what it is, and it scares the shit out of me, but…you and me…it sparks. It burns, and it blinds, and as terrifying as it is, it's---."

"Real," she finished.

The corner of Spike's mouth lifted. "Yeah," he said. "Exactly. So, that's what I owe you the apology for. For not believing you when you said…when you told me…"

She watched him struggle to find the right words with growing amusement. "Guess I'm not the only one who has a hard time wrapping her tongue around it, huh?" Buffy teased.

He growled when she playfully punched him. "Good thing I'm so good at wrapping my tongue 'round other things, then isn't it?" he taunted with a devilish gleam in his eye.

She squealed when his mouth dropped to nip at her neck, pushing him with enough force to send him back into the snowdrift. "I thought I said you weren't getting sex again after giving me the brush-off," she said with an assumed haughtiness. "Don't think you're getting to me _that_ easy, buster."

"You think this has been _easy_?" Spike replied. A few minutes earlier, he would've been furious at her shove, but with their new understanding out in the open, it was simpler to see the flirtatious taunt in her voice. Hell, he could already smell her newly realized arousal clinging to her skin. If the Slayer wanted to play, he was more than willing to oblige her.

"I think you're obsessed with sex."

"Well, yeah. It was bloody fantastic. Can't really fault me for wanting more, now can you?"

Her eyes flickered to the cabin. "There's still the issue of Holly."

"Moptop's sleeping."

"I mean, we can't be all over each other all the time in front of her. It's not…that's what I was trying to put a stop to this morning, you know. She's impressionable."

"So she'll learn from a master."

"I'm serious."

With a sigh, Spike pushed himself back to his feet, leaning against a tree trunk as his hands automatically went to his pockets. The crumpled pack reminded him that he only had five cigarettes left to last until the New Year, but with as much as had happened that day, he figured now was as good a time as any to have one.

"So, you're saying you want nothin' hands on in front of the kid, is that it?" he asked, inhaling deeply on the filter. The nicotine sizzled along his veins, doing its job in relaxing him when languor was the last thing on his mind. "Think you're makin' a mistake, though."

"That's because you want permission to get into my pants whenever you want."

"Not just that. It'll do her good to see a positive spin on a relationship for a change. She's not exactly been exposed to the same sunny side of the street you grew up on, luv." He frowned when Buffy began to giggle. "What's so funny?"

"You. Us. The thought that anything about you and me being together could be positive for _anyone_." She suddenly sobered. "How do you know that about Holly?"

He shrugged. "Not hard to tell. Kids sleepwalk for a reason, and considering Doyle said this Maria bird has been after her since she was born, stands to reason that Holly's seen more than her fair share of the uglies."

"It would explain why she's not afraid of your game face."

"That better not be a comment on my looks, pet."

"So, can we make some sort of deal? Just…hold back a little on the PDA when we're in front of Holly?"

He'd already made his decision regarding her request before she'd pushed it, but Spike held his tongue for a long moment, his lungs filling periodically with smoke as he puffed at his cigarette. "We're not in front of Holly now," he finally said, deliberately sweeping his gaze over her.

His lips quirked at her shiver. "You're not cold?" Buffy asked.

"Vampire, luv. The question should be…are you?"

He only saw the smile that spread across her face for a brief flash before Buffy whirled away from him and dashed off into the trees. Pushing off the trunk, Spike flicked the remains of his cigarette into the snow, hearing the quick sizzle as the burning tip melted its way below the surface before setting off after her.

New game, new rules.

_Think I'm goin' to bloody love this one._

-----

Joyce pressed the compress into her eyes, though she knew it was going to do nothing to ease the ache that was making her skull feel like it was going to explode from the inside out. The glut of information that had been thrown at her over the past few hours was enough to make her wonder if this was what Buffy went through every time an apocalypse breezed its way into town, or if Joyce was just acutely unable to process it in the same manner. Either way, her headache was more than testimony to the weight of the situation.

She'd thought she was handling it remarkably well, considering. It wasn't until her skepticism and constant questioning had worn their patience thin and the pair of ghosts had resorted to having Jenny Calendar appear out of nowhere to convince her it was all the truth, that Joyce crumbled. Seeing the dead teacher, looking every inch as if she was still alive and hadn't suffered at the hands of a ruthless Angelus, had been disconcerting at best.

At worst, it had been a nightmare. And not how she'd envisioned spending her Christmas Eve.

At least she knew Buffy was safe. The details they'd shared about the mission for which the Powers That Be had selected the Slayer seemed innocuous enough, though the enemy that was pursuing the child in question didn't. Joyce didn't fully understand why they wouldn't tell her where her daughter was, but until her head was clear again, she was letting them get away with that. That would be an interrogation for another time.

It was surprising that Spike had been chosen as well, though she'd discovered that his primary advocate among the ghosts seemed to hold the same opinion of the vampire that Joyce did.

"Spike fights to the death for those he cares about," the young woman had said. "Once he decides you're his concern, there isn't anything he won't do to protect you. That's the kind of loyalty we need protecting Holly."

Joyce wanted to argue that, while she believed they were correct in their assumptions regarding Spike's behavior, he was still a vampire who had no vested interest in an unknown child, but her headache got the best of her, keeping her silent long after the women had left. It was only when Doyle said he was stepping out to fetch her something to drink that she spoke up again.

"You're worried about them, aren't you?" she'd said as he hovered in the doorway. "You think Spike's going to screw up somehow."

Doyle just shrugged. "I won't lie and say the thought hasn't occurred to me," he'd admitted. "But if he can get the likes of you and Buffy to care about what happens to him, well, then I guess anything is pretty much possible, isn't it?"

Food for thought. Well, if thinking didn't involve so much discomfort. Better to just lie still and pray for a moment of clarity when it was past.

She opened her eyes when she heard the door quietly open and close, propping herself up on her elbows to see Doyle enter with a large sack in his hand. "I'm not _that_ thirsty," Joyce commented with a wry smile.

Doyle chuckled. "Thought I'd get you a few things," he said, setting his parcel down on the lone table in the motel room. He spoke as he emptied its contents. "It's not exactly home cooking, but since we aren't having luck talking you back to Sunnydale just yet, I guess it'll have to do."

The sugary smell of homemade pie wafted to her nostrils, and Joyce sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to get a better look at the food he was laying out. "I thought everything was closed at this hour," she said.

"Everything is." He held up a warning finger. "And don't be lecturing me. I get enough of mothering from the girls."

"I think my stomach is inclined to be on your side in this matter," Joyce replied. They were both silent while he finished with the arranging. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?" she asked when he'd settled back into the chair he'd first vacated.

"Can't," he admitted. "As long as you're still about, someone's got to keep an eye out for you. Now, if you'd be a good girl and go back to Sunnydale---."

"Not without Buffy."

Doyle sighed. "Which means, you're stuck with me." He flashed her his widest grin. "It could be worse for you. I've been told I'm quite the charming fella."

In spite of her weariness, Joyce joined in his smile, crossing to sit opposite him at the table. "I could just slip out when you're not looking. You can't watch me all the time."

"One advantage to being dead. Every reason you can think of that would naturally divert my attention is gone. Would you like to try for door number two?"

"Something tells me that's the door with pie."

He pushed the tin closer to her, watching as she fished out one of the plastic forks he'd also brought. "Happy Christmas Eve, Joyce," Doyle said. "Let's say we relax and enjoy it. While we can."

-----

"You're certain?" Maria's voice betrayed none of the unease that was gripping her insides, and her hand remained steady where it held the telephone receiver.

"No doubt," came the masculine voice on the other end of the line. "I was there myself when she came in. All hot and bothered that her daughter was in that car crash you were asking about the other day."

"And what did you tell her?"

"Exactly what you asked us to. Nothing we could do without a body, and so forth. She came with a whole bunch of information she only could've gotten from another cop, though, so she's talked to someone. I just can't tell you who."

"I see. Thank you very much for calling me. I do appreciate it."

He laughed. "That's what you paid me for, right?"

"And there shall be a very hefty Christmas bonus for you, as well," she said. Bidding the officer farewell, Maria was completely absorbed in her thoughts by the time she returned the phone to its base.

Joyce Summers was alert to the accident, even knowing as much as the general vicinity where it had occurred.

The only communication to Sunnydale had been under Maria's supervision, when Rupert Giles had contacted his Slayer's mother to alleviate her worrying.

Ergo, Rupert Giles must have said something to warn the Slayer's mother that something was amiss.

Rupert Giles would have to be watched.

It was unfortunate, really, because the work he'd accomplished so far on the translations had far exceeded any of their expectations. His brilliance was putting both Silas and Paul to shame, though Maria had few delusions that his aid was motivated by anything other than his concern for his Slayer. His loyalty rested with Buffy. Now, he'd proven it by giving the elder Summers some unknown alarm that could only inhibit Maria's search.

She wished that she could remember the conversation he'd had on the phone, so she could understand how he'd managed to elude her detection so thoroughly. Perhaps there would be a clue there as to something she had missed.

Pressing an intercom button on the phone, Maria waited until a tinny "Yes?" came through the speaker before ordering the request for the security tapes. It might take her a little time to find what it was Rupert thought he was getting away with, but she had no doubts that she would.

There was no room for failure at this point.

It was just a shame such a keen mind would have to be sacrificed. Maria would've liked to further explore a relationship with the strong-willed Watcher. Beyond Holly's frustrating disappearance, Rupert Giles had been the one wild card to remain in her hand that sparked any sort of interest for her.

To be continued in Chapter 27: The Stars Are Brightly Shining…


	27. The Stars Are Brightly Shining

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Maria has learned that Joyce is looking for Buffy, Joyce is stuck at the hotel with Doyle as a babysitter while she tries to process the information about Buffy and Spike, and our two favorite blonds seem to have cleared the air between them regarding their fight…

-----

As Buffy laced a path through the trees, the air was slick against her skin, hints of more snow laden in its breath, blending with her sweat to leave her damp and exhilarated, enervated and vitalized, all at the same time. The ground pulled at her feet, its white drifts disingenuous of their peril, but she refused to yield to its attempts to slow her down. Spike was behind her. To slow too soon would defeat the purpose of the game.

He hadn't actually said the words, though he'd said everything in the neighborhood around them. Hell, he'd offered insight from the next town over, so even if Spike hadn't come out and blatantly told Buffy that his desire to continue their relationship was based on feelings that ran a little deeper than lust, that was all right. It wasn't as if Buffy got the gold in being upfront girl; the fact that she'd managed to squeak out what little confessions she already had _still_ surprised her.

More than anything else---and this simple admission was the shocker to top them all---she was glad for the air clearing. Relieved. _Happy_.

Spike wasn't the vampire she'd thought him to be when she arrived. He'd spent the past few days showing her sides of him she hadn't seen before. And the more she saw of him…

…the more she saw of herself.

With Spike, there wasn't the need to pretend. He took her strength and turned it into an asset. Buffy hadn't realized how much she wanted that until he'd offered it to her, with no other expectations except to be treated as an equal. Which was hard in oodles of ways considering the vampire business, but something she was slowly growing beyond, breath by breath.

She had to.

He was forcing her to see that he was more than just fists and fangs and evil deed do-er every time he turned an understanding gaze toward Holly, or apologized in gestures not meant to be acknowledged. It was…freeing, in a way.

She was _so_ ready to be free.

So, she ran, a smile playing on her lips as she skirted his attempts to catch her. She circled the cabin in roundabout patterns, never letting it go from her sight, ears alert for any sound of distress coming from the small house. She'd blocked the door slightly before climbing to the roof, but Buffy wasn't convinced that Holly couldn't still find some way to get out if the nocturnal desire overtook her. Then, there was the matter that she could wake up and freak out about being alone again. Whatever games Buffy and Spike played outside would have to be short.

Ducking behind a broad tree, the Slayer pressed herself into the bark, turning her head to listen for her pursuer. Earlier, she'd heard him thundering through the underbrush, just as loudly as she, but now, the forest echoed in silence, the only sounds she could hear the harsh rasp of her own breath. Deliberately, she focused on one of Giles' relaxation techniques to cloak the evidence of her whereabouts, other senses sharp for anything amiss. Spike may have the upper hand when it came to being able to see in the dark woods at night, but Buffy wasn't about to let that get the best of her.

A full minute passed while she concentrated. Her immobility was joining forces with the cold to leaden her limbs, but she was determined not to move until she knew where Spike was. Even if it took all night.

And then…

A faint crack of a stick breaking in the not-so-far distance.

It was gone almost as quickly as she caught it, and Buffy imagined an annoyed Spike freezing in his paces as he realized he'd divulged his location. Then, the soft brush of snow as something soft feathered against it whispered in her ear, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was approaching her. Trying to be stealthy. Trying to surprise her.

Two could play that game.

Quickly, she shimmied up the tree, swinging herself onto a thick branch that was high enough to be over Spike's head but not so high that she had an unwieldy way back down. Crouching into the deep bend at its juncture with the trunk, Buffy held her breath as she watched the direction she'd heard the telltale signs of his presence.

He didn't disappoint.

Within seconds of her settling, she saw the black leather waft around the perimeter of a dead stump, an ebony shadow that flickered and danced before revealing the white burst of his head when it appeared in her view. Buffy stifled a giggle. In this veil of blackness, Spike's hair really did glow in the dark. Teasing material, for sure.

His footsteps slowed further as he neared the tree, but his head never once tilted to look overhead. He wasn't even in game face, which would've given him an advantage in the dark, she knew. It was as if---.

She shrieked when Spike's hand shot up and grabbed her ankle, and she lashed out instinctively, breaking his hold and sending him stumbling back. When he looked up to see her, though, a broad grin creased his features, but in spite of the dim light that filtered through the branches, Buffy could still see the amusement dancing in the blue.

"Holdin' your breath doesn't stop your heart beating," he commented casually.

Damn it. She forgot about super-sensitive vampire hearing as well as the sight thing. Next time they played this game, she was going to make Spike wear earmuffs.

"So now what?" she challenged.

"Now, you get your ass down here so that I can get you all tucked in back where it's just a mite toastier than it is out here," he replied.

"Aw, is somebody cold?"

"Believe we've already had this discussion, pet. Just not interested in listening to you natter on about a few sniffles when you wake up in the morning."

He didn't mean it, but she jumped down anyway, sliding between his arms when he lifted them to help guide her path to the ground. When they settled around her back, pulling her into the insulation of his embrace, Buffy allowed herself the luxury of caressing the hard line of his chest beneath his shirt. "Do you really want to go back in?" she asked. "Unless…" Her head turned in the direction of the cabin. "Did you hear something I didn't?"

"No, but…" Reaching between them, Spike closed his fingers around her hands, containing what little heat she had in them. He felt almost warm compared to the frigidity of the air, and she jumped slightly at the sudden difference.

"You've been out and about all day," he continued. His head bent, his mouth hovering above her ear. "Rather be _in_ and about with you, is all."

A cascade of shivers undulated down Buffy's spine, and she closed her eyes against the image of pale limbs tangling with hers. "If we go in, we have to be quiet," she said, and almost frowned when he pulled away to gaze down at her. "Is that what you want?"

"Want _you_." His clarification was accompanied with the tightening of his grip around her, his erection grinding against her stomach as his mouth returned to her ear. His breath when he spoke again tickled but the sensations were lost in the flood of tremors that were threatening her legs.

"Could take you here," Spike murmured. Slowly, he backed her against the tree she'd just vacated, until the harsh bark scraped across her shoulders. "That what you want?" The arm around her slid to the front, pushing its way beneath her coat so that his fingertips grazed along her waistband. "There an exhibitionist in there just dyin' to get out, luv?"

Every touch labored her breathing even more. "Being an exhibitionist requires an audience," Buffy managed to get out, though her voice was barely more than a throaty whisper.

"Which takes us back to option A." Now, his mouth was joining the music of his hand, trailing along her jaw, his tongue tasting the tang of her skin. "Warm fire...the house all decked out, with the little one able to walk in on us at any second…could even let you finish what you set out to do last night." Teeth nipped at her neck, a single finger dipping down the front of her pants. "After all, 'tis the season for givin', right? Then…it'll be _my_ turn."

The promise brought with it a torrent of memories from the night before, how his mouth had felt between her legs, the incredible curling thing that his tongue did around her clit. Buffy squirmed against Spike's hold, desperate for something more than the hint of hardness she was getting through all the layers of clothes and coats, and heard his chuckle like a luscious pledge to her flesh.

"Looks like I'm not the only one with an oral fixation, doesn't it, Slayer? Which makes you wetter?" His hands stayed their motions, delaying during his speculation. "The thought of my hard cock sliding in and out of your hot, little mouth?" A pause while he listened to her body's rhythms. "Or is it imagining coming from feeling my tongue drowning in your juices?"

Her involuntary gasp elicited the return of his touch, and this time, she felt the sharp sting of the air as her pants came undone beneath his command, the wintry air mixing with the swelter of her pussy as Spike's hand dove in to test the results of his queries.

"What a greedy little wench you are," he murmured against her throat.

Buffy's inner muscles clenched at the intrusion of two of his fingers, and she could only pant in growing ardor when he drew them back out and promptly sucked them into his mouth. For a moment, his lashes fluttered shut as he seemed to savor what he tasted there, but when they opened again, the blue was almost entirely gone, pupils swallowing the irises to gaze at her with naked hunger.

"Guess it's a good thing---," Spike started to say, but the slam of Buffy's mouth to his extinguished his need to finish the thought, their tongues instinctively demanding the other's response as lips parted, appetites whetted beyond casual stroking.

Clinging to his shoulders, Buffy lifted her legs to wrap them around his slim hips, grinding against his erection through the denim as the world melted around her. Every cell of her skin tingled, though if that was from the cold or from Spike, she had no idea. Probably both. Didn't matter. But when his arms clutched her small frame to his, and he turned back in the direction of the cabin, Buffy broke free from the kiss to shake her head.

"No," she said breathily. "I don't want to go back. I don't want to have to worry about the noise factor."

His tongue ran along the edge of his teeth, his gaze fixated on her mouth. "Could always put a gag on you," Spike said. "Gives a whole new meaning to silent night, holy night, don't you think?"

Her mouth crooked into a wicked smile. "Maybe next time," she taunted. "For now…" Sliding down his body, Buffy quickly did her pants back up before grabbing his hand and pulling him off into the trees. She squinted against the darkness for the markers she hoped she wouldn't miss, all the while her heart pounding in her throat.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"That lake Holly and I found today."

"You're not worried about the little one?"

She hesitated in her step, glancing back at him and the direction of the cabin. "You think we should be?"

"It's Christmas Eve, and she's just a wee little nipper who still believes in St. Nick. Would _you_ be able sleep the night through?"

She'd forgotten about the Santa Claus issue. The reminder of real life put a stopper on her rising desire for Spike, and she stopped to contemplate what she was going to do. "Why are you being so grown-up about this?" Buffy asked him. "I thought you hated having Holly around."

There was an odd discomfort to the way Spike shrugged, like he was fighting for a nonchalance that he really didn't feel. "Not too fussed one way or another," he said. "Just don't fancy havin' to take the blame for it if something was to happen to her."

"Why would I blame you?"

He cocked a single eyebrow. "'Cause that's what you do, pet. I'm your favorite scapegoat, remember? You break a nail, and somehow it turns out to be the Big Bad's fault."

"I don't---." She stopped when his gaze remained unwavering. Who was she kidding? Spike was right. Of course, the difference was, half the time, it _was_ his fault. It was convenient having a resident evil around to shoulder responsibility for all the crappy things that happened in her life.

But if they were going to do this, if Buffy was going to allow Spike to have a place in her life, she knew that would have to stop. No way would he stick around if she continued to treat him like she had before. Not that he really had anyplace to go to, but he'd already proved to her that he still had a piece of his dignity that she couldn't touch. And shouldn't she _want_ to treat him better? Hadn't everything he'd done so far earned him that right?

It had to start somewhere.

It had to start with her.

"What do _you_ want to do?" Buffy asked. His fingers twitched within her grip, mirroring the surprise that drew his brows back together. "This one's your call, Spike. Whatever you want. I…I trust you."

The way his face lit up at those three simple words made her wish she'd said them earlier. He looked…younger. More vulnerable, which was wicked weird because it wasn't an adjective she would've ever applied to a vampire before. But most importantly…

He looked happy.

It didn't take him any time at all to make the decision.

"Go on back to the cabin and get yourself warmed up," Spike instructed. When she didn't react right away, he gently tugged to get her feet moving, swatting Buffy's bottom as she passed by as an extra push along. "Don't be fussed, luv. You're still gettin' your greedy little way in bein' outside. Just want you all toasty when it happens and I've got a few things to set up first."

Pausing to look back, Buffy noted the gleam in his eyes, the pleased smile that curled his lips. "What is it with you and surprises?" she mused out loud.

He didn't reply, but when she'd turned to begin the trek back to the cabin, his last direction floated up to her ears.

"And change into something a bit more…accessible."

-----

Lying before the fire was making her drowsy, so when the door finally opened to reveal a pale Spike, Buffy was almost asleep from the warmth. She had done as he requested, spending far too long staring at her wardrobe and the short skirts that proliferated there before finally opting for a long denim one. When Holly hadn't even rolled over in the space of time it took Buffy to change, she'd realized that maybe her worrying was for naught. It had been a long, exhausting day for all of them. Maybe it was better to just forego the outside idea and curl up in front of the fireplace for the rest of the night.

"Miss me?" Spike asked as he strolled to the couch.

Buffy rolled onto her side to face him, her cheek still resting on the pillow. "Were you building another log cabin out there?" she teased. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming back."

"Never been able to stay away from you," he murmured. Crouching down, his fingers, made icy by his continued exposure outside, pushed back her hair, traced the outline of her lips. "You still up for this, pet?"

She giggled. "Shouldn't that be my line for you?"

"When it comes to you, I'm always up."

Curiosity as much as desire for him propelled Buffy's legs over, her hands engulfed in Spike's when he tugged her to her feet. "This has got to be the weirdest Christmas I've ever had," she said as she followed him to the front door.

"I'm assuming you're meaning that in a good way, not in a backwards, wishing you had kept your mouth closed, way," Spike said. He grabbed her coat without breaking stride, pushing the door open with his foot and then kicking it shut again behind them as if letting her go for even a second would be too much. "'Cause otherwise, I'm goin' to have to give that tongue of yours a lesson in how not to piss off the vampire you're currently shacked up with."

She ignored his gibe. "So, what's the big surprise?" Buffy asked. Her eyes scanned the void of the forest in front of them, but saw nothing different than when she'd last walked through. "You get me all dressed up with nowhere to go? Shame on you, Spike."

"This way, Slayer," he growled. He yanked her down the stairs, but his manner was deceptively gentle, the gruffness of his movements smoothed by the care he took to make sure she didn't stumble. Without looking back at her, Spike began marching around the side of the building, his step sure, his head high.

She was more than familiar with the landscape surrounding the cabin. During their earlier forays, she and Holly had gone over and around these gliding drifts and thicks of trees until Buffy was confident she could find her way around in the dark. Still, knowing what to expect didn't prepare her for the tableau Spike had created in her absence.

There were no trees here. Whoever had built the cabin had left its rear clear of the forest, a rectangular expanse that probably served as a back yard for barbecuing during less intemperate times. The woodpile that served as their primary fuel source was stacked against the back of the building, but the loose logs and tools they used in splitting were cleaned away. Even the small snowman that Buffy and Holly had built earlier had been relocated away from the center of the space, standing guard along the perimeter as if to ward away any further trespassers.

The snow was still present, but Spike had leveled it off, creating a low, packed wall with the extra that blocked against the slight wind. A blanket that looked far too firm was laid out along the ground before it, and icicles had been broken off from the eaves to adorn the barricade like a headboard.

"Got it when you were changing," Spike said when he saw the question in her eyes. He led her over to the makeshift bed, and then wrapped his arms around her from behind to stop her from immediately settling down.

"Only have two rules," he said softly into her ear. "Keep your eyes open and focused on the sky."

"Why?"

"Rule number two. No questions."

She caught the smirk on his face before lying down on the blanket. Surprisingly, it wasn't that cold beneath her back; Buffy realized that Spike must've cleared the worst of the snow before laying it out. Above, the inky sky stretched as far as she could see, not a cloud marring the pinpricks of stars that gleamed through its curtain. If she concentrated her attention on the skeletal branches that edged her vision, Buffy imagined she could feel the world twirling away beneath her and quickly shut her eyes against the sudden vertigo that had her head and stomach swimming.

Spike's prod at her shoulder prompted them open again.

"Is it the Slayer part of you that makes it impossible to follow my direction, or is it the female part?" he asked. "Not that there's much I can do about either, but it'd be nice to know which is the bane of my annoyance."

"I put a skirt on, didn't I?"

He left it at that, crawling down to position himself between her feet. Nudging her legs apart, he picked up each of Buffy's feet and removed her boots, setting them on the edge of the blanket so that they'd be within easy reach in case the need arose. Without tilting her head, Buffy couldn't tell what he was doing, and had to fight not to break his first rule again in such a short period of time.

This was about trusting Spike.

Even having softer feelings for him, trusting him was something that was easier said than done.

She jumped when he took her left foot in his hand, strong fingers massaging the arch, working the muscles along her sole so that the workout she'd gained that day could ease in torpid relief. The groan that emanated from her throat was unstoppable, and it took every fiber of Buffy's control not to close her eyes and wallow in the pleasure.

"Never said you couldn't talk, pet." His voice drifted up in a chocolaty rumble that made the languor overcoming her body even more difficult to resist. "In fact, might make it easier to keep yourself focused on those stars."

His hands were on her ankle now, rotating her foot within the socket to loosen it up. The sudden understanding that it was actually a very vulnerable position for Spike, that he had placed himself in the path of her kicks should she choose to use them, made Buffy stiffen, but his steady rhythm gradually alleviated the alarm within her.

"I don't really do this all that often," she said in a desperate attempt to sound normal. "Look at the stars, I mean."

"I know."

Her head jerked up automatically, but at his upheld warning finger, it quickly fell back down again. "You know?" she asked. "How do you know?"

Spike sighed. "Rules are lost on you, aren't they?"

"Pretty much."

"How 'bout we amend that second rule to just be no questions about what I'm doin' here, then? Think you can stick to that one?"

"Does that mean you're going to answer me?" She deliberately phrased her response in the form of a query to elicit the exasperated sigh from Spike, and smiled when it came as she'd hoped.

"I watch you, Buffy. That's how I know. A blind man could see that you're not enjoying yourself with the slaying as much as you used to."

Her smile vanished. "When did this switch from stars to slaying?"

"All part and parcel of the same thing."

"Newsflash, Spike. I go star-gazing while I'm on patrol, and I die." His massage had moved up her leg, rubbing and kneading at her calf. He was taking extra care to keep her legs covered, though, to shield her from the worst of the cold, so it was impossible for her words to be anything more than a simple observation.

"I'm not tellin' you to get yourself distracted."

_What is that catch in his voice?_ But any analysis of Spike's thoughts was beyond Buffy's faculty at the moment, each passing second sending her spiraling deeper and deeper into the torpor his hands were creating.

"But for someone who spends so much time out and about in the night," he was continuing, "I just think you don't actually see it any more."

"I see it."

"Do you?" Carefully, Spike put down her foot to shift his attention to the opposite leg. "Do you _really_?"

She didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't an accusation he was making; his gentle tone lacked any of the mocking that usually colored Spike's words. But she had never known he'd noticed more than what affected his own world.

That had been before.

Before the accident.

Before the cabin.

Before this amazing, bone-melting, shattering massage.

His hands were sliding up her legs now, beneath her skirt, onto her thighs. She had been bold and removed her underwear when she'd changed, and now, the whiff of his promise made her pussy tingle in anticipation. Unconsciously, Buffy spread her legs a little further apart, feeling the cold lick along her outer lips. It felt deliciously dangerous.

"One of these days, I'm going to have learn the constellations for real," she said. Her voice was breathy, her lungs already quickening as her body readied for Spike's attentions. "Calling them the circly-star thing and the Big Star Bonanza just doesn't cut it any more, I think."

"If you're serious, I can always teach you," Spike said.

"Is this residual info from Drusilla's talking stars?" Buffy teased. She groaned when the tip of one of his fingers grazed the junction of her thigh and hip. He was tormenting her on purpose, she decided. That had to be the only reason he wasn't finishing the job of seducing her.

"Those stars got us outta more than one mess," he replied. He paused. "'Course, they also got us _into_ our fair share, too, so I s'pose it's a double-edged sword."

The lethargy his massage was creating within her muscles was making Buffy's vision go soft, too, she decided. The stars seemed brighter as she gazed up at them, blurring around the edges to bleed together into a sparkling collage of silver, and the dizziness she'd felt when she'd first watched them move against the tree branches was long gone. Even blinking seemed to take an eternity, and the thought of breaking Spike's first rule now seemed ridiculous when watching was so much easier.

"I think that applies to just about everything in life," she said dreamily.

She felt his hands hesitate for a fraction of a second. "Was that the Slayer who just waxed philosophical?" Spike asked.

"I do have a brain," she said. "College girl here, remember?"

He chuckled. "My little coed."

It was the combination of the possession in his voice and the sudden intrusion of his fingers against her labia that made Buffy gasp out loud. All attempts at normal conversation scattered as Spike began stroking her pussy with the same tender attention he'd given her legs, directly avoiding her clit to slide up one side and down the other, the faintest of tugs on her coarse curls to send tiny electric shocks straight into her pelvis.

"Know you're wondering why all the set-up," he murmured. His weight was pressed against her legs as he stretched out between them, his hands dancing and floating with their task. "I just…I wanted you to just enjoy it."

"Spike---."

"Know it's not been much of a Christmas for you," he interrupted. "And I know you're worried about your mum bein' alone and not knowing where your Watcher is." Spike's finger dipped into her wetness, using her fluids to make his gliding along her inner and outer lips more silken, straying now to the crack of her ass just often enough to make her squirm. "Since we both know Father Christmas isn't parking his reindeer anywhere 'round here tonight, I figured…well, a few minutes where you don't have space in your pretty little head to worry is about all I can give you in the way of gifts---."

His mouth clamped shut when she bolted up onto her elbows, and Buffy saw the dark glint in his eyes before he ducked his head in embarrassment. "Stop," she ordered, with more force than she felt, because asking him to halt what glory his fingers was creating seemed sacrilege. "Come here."

When he didn't obey as quickly as she wanted, Buffy bent to grab the lapels of him coat and hauled him upward, her skirt flaring to expose her legs to the cold before Spike covered them in denim and leather. "You're impossible, you know that?" she said when his face was level with hers.

His eyes were black, shadowed by the sky above, pupils dilated from the desire she knew he felt. "Could say the same about you," Spike replied. Pressing his palms to the blanket, he pushed away to gain some perspective, but didn't leave the call of her flesh. "You have the same problem with presents that you do with rules?"

"I didn't ask you for anything."

"Because then this would be a favor, not a gift. And before you get your knickers in a twist, no, I don't think I'm doin' you a favor by servicing you."

Her lips twitched. "Servicing me? Way to go with the romance, Spike."

"You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I do." Buffy's smile faded. "And…thank you."

He was momentarily stunned by the show of gratitude, but he quickly covered it up with a knowing smirk. "You goin' to let me get back to what I was doin', then?" Spike asked.

"No." Before he could argue, Buffy knocked his arms sideways, forcing him to fall back against her. Her lips found his in a hungry lock, and she clutched at his coat to keep him close. When the kiss finally broke, she met Spike's confused gaze with an assurance that astonished her.

"I'm not drunk anymore, you know that, right?" she said.

"Never said you were."

"So, what I said earlier…morning's not going to come rolling around and you're not going to throw it all back in my face with some stupid excuse that we were both under the influence, right?"

Understanding began to gleam in his eyes. "No, Buffy," Spike said, his voice surprisingly sincere. "I know bloody well what's goin' on here."

"Then…can I ask you one thing?" She felt foolish giving credence to her doubts, but until she heard him actually say it out loud, Buffy knew that niggle would eat away at her resolve and something between them would break as a result.

"Don't need to." His mouth descended to take hers in another kiss, his tongue deceptively warm compared to the frigid air around them. "None of this would've happened if you didn't matter to me, luv," he whispered when he pulled back. "Selfish vampire, remember? But you…you drive me bug-shagging crazy with your bossiness, and that little flip thing you do with your hair every time you think you're right, and I shouldn't be feeling this way 'cause natural order it's not. But…when you're not there, I'm lookin' for you, and all I want is to…" Shaking his head, he dropped his head so that their brows just barely brushed. "Yeah, so…you matter to me, Buffy. More than I thought could be possible. And right now, I'm thinkin'…I wouldn't have it any other way."

-----

Though Spike's coat hid most of the display from sight, Jenny averted her eyes anyway, turning away from the cabin and toward her ghostly partner. "Well, I suppose the upside is that at least he doesn't have a soul to lose," she commented. She held up a warning finger. "But you're _not_ getting a 'you were right,' so don't even try."

The other woman smiled. "I'm just glad Mrs. Summers isn't here to see this," she replied. "Can you imagine the look on her face if she'd stumbled across them like this?"

"Probably close to the one she had when she saw me in her hotel room."

"I hope she's all right."

"She will be. Joyce is tough."

The other woman was thoughtful. "No offense, but I always wondered why she and Mr. Giles never hooked up. They seemed to have so much in common."

"Yeah, they did." Jenny's lips curved into a sly smile. "Why do you think I put the bug in Rupert's ear during that band candy debacle?"

She was rewarded with wide eyes. "You didn't!"

Jenny shrugged. "Rupert needed to have a little fun in his life. I just wish they both hadn't gone all shy after the spell wore off."

"You're bad."

"I try." With a sigh, she cast a final glance toward Buffy and Spike, her moans and his endearments undeniable in the calm night. "I think things are going to be good here," she said. "What say you to taking the rest of Christmas Eve off for a change? It'll be our gift to ourselves."

"Sounds good to me." Pause. "This is because you can't watch Buffy and Spike, isn't it?"

"…Yeah."

"Thought so. Let's go."

To be continued in Chapter 28: A Visit from St. Nicholas…


	28. A Visit from St Nicholas

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Maria is concerned about Giles divulging information to Joyce, while Buffy and Spike seem to have cleared the air in time for Christmas morning…

-----

It was the best kind of dream.

The specifics escaped him, but Spike was more than aware of the heat coursing through his body, surging and scalding from the inside out as only a fresh kill could do. His muscles hummed from the exhilaration of a good fight, pulled and stretched and ravaged until they sprang back and begged for more, but it sated him nonetheless, in ways he'd thought banished with the advent of the chip. Few gave him such satisfaction, and the various demons he'd been allowed to fight since getting tethered to the Hellmouth by a twisted mockery of fate did little but take the edge off.

If he was honest, he hadn't felt this good since fighting Buffy in the sunlight. Now _that_ had been a beautiful day. In more ways than one.

As Spike drifted through the ether back into consciousness, he slowly became aware of a single observation that made the remnants of his dreams incongruous. The heat was not just within. The heat was also on the outside, centralized on his legs. Waking rationale offered up the possibility that it was just the blanket wrapped around his limbs, but he almost instantly dismissed the notion. It was too intense in some spots, less so in others. And it weighed him down more than a flimsy piece of cotton could.

Then…he heard it.

A moan, so faint that a human would've missed it, trapped within the confines of a slim throat that was struggling to contain it.

And with it, the heat instantaneously shifted into something more.

Something wet.

Something powerful.

Something oh so clinging, and silken, and sumptuous in the sensations it was wreaking throughout his flesh.

A mouth.

On his straining, rock-hard erection.

And Buffy's flushed curves splayed across his thighs as she sucked his length.

Automatically, Spike's hand reached down to tangle in her thick hair, curling around the back of her head to guide her as she slowly bobbed up and down. He could feel her tongue now, tracing the length of the underside. She was doing her best to swallow as much of him as she could but was failing on the final few inches. It was endearing, in a way. Like everything else in her life that she set her mind to, Buffy was trying to go all the way with her blowjob.

With it more than obvious that he was now awake, Buffy's attention intensified, and she moved just enough to allow her free hand room to participate in the festivities. Spike hissed when the tip of her nail scraped along the sensitive skin below his balls, but when she hesitated in mid-stroke, his hand tightened in her hair, pushing her back down with just enough force to set the chip to start tingling in his skull.

"Don't you bloody stop," he growled.

Her attention returned. Spike shifted, spreading his legs, and was rewarded when Buffy's hand drifted lower to draw a single line down the crack of his ass.

He'd stopped her from doing this the previous night. After they'd finished beneath the stars, Spike had demanded she retire back to the heat of the cabin, wrapping the pair of them in a blanket before the fireplace while they just watched the flames dance in the darkness. Buffy had tried initiating more sex, but after a leisurely fuck on the floor, the only thing he had wanted was to hold her.

Yeah. It had surprised the fuck out of him, too.

_"You're comin' up, right?" he'd asked._

_Her eyes had jumped to the loft ladder before shifting to the closed bedroom door. "Is that such a good idea?" Buffy had countered. "What about---?"_

_"What about, you stop fussin' with what's not broken?" Scooping her over his shoulder, Spike couldn't help but grin at the half-hearted pounding she was doing on his lower back as he strolled to the ladder. "C'mon, Slayer. You know you want to."_

They'd fallen asleep curled around each other, though Buffy had insisted on wearing one of his shirts on the off-chance Holly gave a repeat performance of an alarm clock. He'd never expected waking up to a blowjob, but Spike was hardly one to look a gift Slayer in the mouth. After all, there were obviously other, more delightful things she could be doing with it.

She was speeding up, and his moans only encouraged her to start some swirling thing with her tongue, adding to the cascades that were already making his thighs quake. What she lacked in expertise, she made up for in enthusiasm, and it was far too soon when Spike felt the familiar fire at the pit of his stomach.

She held him down when his back arched away from the bed, much like he had done with her their first night. Somewhere, in the back of his brain, he was aware that the suction of her mouth had never left his erection, but it wasn't until his eyes fluttered open for the first time to gaze down at her, and he saw her muscles still working, that he realized what she'd actually done.

Words fled. In the ambient glow that radiated from below, Buffy was blushed in bittersweet, eyes sparkling in spite of the shadows, swollen lips already curling in the beginning of a smile. She was beautiful, but it wasn't that that struck Spike dumb.

It was the carefree absence of strain in her brow, the soft set of her aspect as she just watched him. As if she didn't have a care in the world.

"Merry Christmas," she said quietly, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

"Come here," Spike growled, finally finding his voice. His hands slid beneath her arms, tugging her upward to sprawl along his length, and before she could speak, he'd pulled her mouth to his, kissing her as if he hadn't seen her in a century. _Touching, have to be touching_, and he burned wherever their skin melded. It was a merry Christmas, all right. The best bloody Christmas he could remember.

"I take it you liked that then," Buffy said when they finally broke apart.

He answered her by flipping her onto her back, eliciting a surprised squeak as he pinned her to the mattress. "Your turn," Spike murmured, bowing to press his lips to her neck.

The faintest of whimpers stopped him, and he turned his head automatically toward the sound, eyes narrowing to peer into the dim light.

"What is it?" Buffy asked. Propping up on her elbows, she tilted her head to look past his shoulder, but otherwise did nothing to remove herself from his embrace.

Spike's gaze swiveled back. "How long have you been up?" he asked. "Did you get moptop sorted before you set to my little prezzie?"

She shook her head. "I haven't heard her. I figured she was still sleeping."

"On Christmas morning? Not likely."

It ached to disentangle from her golden limbs, but Spike did so anyway, grabbing his jeans and slipping them on before padding silently to the ladder.

"What is it? Is she---oh." Buffy stopped at his shoulder, and he knew without having to look that she had seen the same thing he had. He only beat her to the rungs because she stopped to grab her panties, and listened to her scramble down as he strode toward the small child in the corner.

She had been doing everything she could to be quiet, burying her small face into her bent knees, thin arms wrapped tightly around her legs as she curled into a ball. It was as if Holly was doing everything in her power to disappear into herself, and Spike frowned as he crouched down in front of her.

"What's up, pidge?" he said softly. Carefully, he stretched a hand to push back the hair that hid her face, but when she flinched, he froze, unwilling to advance, not willing to withdraw.

"Something got you spooked?" She wasn't asleep---the rhythm of her tiny heart gave that away---so that ruled out the sleepwalking. The only thing Spike could figure for this kind of reaction was fear, though there was no scent of it on her skin.

The soft fall of Buffy's steps neared, but he didn't tear his eyes away from the child when the Slayer knelt beside him.

"What's wrong, Holly?" she asked, repeating his concern with pretty much the same result. When she reached forward, though, the girl didn't move, allowing herself to be pulled into an awkward embrace while she stayed knotted in her tight little ball.

"She's not hurt," Spike offered quietly. At Buffy's unspoken query, he added, "Can't smell any blood."

"Bad."

Their attention jerked back to Holly at the barely uttered word. "What was that?" Buffy asked.

"Bad."

"What's bad?"

"…Me."

"Did you do something? Is that why you think you're bad?"

Though she was still rolled into her ball, they saw Holly's shoulders shrug.

He waited as Buffy tried a different tactic.

"Why do you think you're bad, Holly? _We_ don't think you're bad."

Silence.

It was driving him to want to shake the words out of her.

And then…

"…Santa does."

Not what he'd expected, and not what the Slayer had expected, by the line that had appeared between her brows.

"What about Santa?" Buffy said quietly. She was suddenly tense, her lips thin.

Finally, the small head lifted, revealing tear-stained cheeks. "Santa doesn't bring presents to girls and boys who are bad," she whispered.

He didn't need to look behind him to see the Christmas tree bereft of presents. He saw the ache that took over Buffy's eyes before she bundled Holly even closer.

That was all it took.

-----

She felt Spike disappear, but Buffy was too wrapped up in trying to soothe away the sadness that had taken over Holly's spirit to pay more attention to it. She'd known the Santa thing would come back and bite her in the butt; she'd just hoped to keep the little girl distracted from the fact that there weren't any presents to unwrap until the holiday was past. She'd even decided she was going to surprise Holly with Mr. Gordo at some point during the day.

She hated the fact that it would be too little, too late.

Holly was still crying, but her tears were silent as they soaked into Buffy's shirt. Buffy knew words weren't going to help, but she gave them anyway, repeating the sentiment over and over as she tried rocking the child to some semblance of peace. It was a method Joyce had used on more than one occasion. It wasn't until now that the Slayer understood exactly why.

When the presence returned to her side, she didn't stop until Spike's cool fingers feathered across Holly's cheeks, wiping away the wet that remained.

"No reason to cry, moptop," he crooned in that voice Buffy was quickly coming to recognize as the vampire's best weapon against any rising emotion. "This is all ol' Spike's fault."

Both girls looked at him in confusion.

"See," he continued, "Nick trusted me with one little job and I've gone and mucked it up. S'pose that's what he gets for trusting a vamp, eh?"

"Who's Nick?" Holly asked in a tiny voice.

Spike clutched at his heart in mock dismay. "You give me an earful 'bout him thinking you're bad and you don't even know his name? For shame."

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. "You talked to Santa?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"When?"

"Up on the roof last night. Ask the Slayer." He turned a guileless gaze to Buffy. "Was I or was I not, up on the rooftop last night?"

She had no idea where he was going with this, but it didn't stop her from answering in truth. "Yes, you were."

Back to Holly. "There you go. And we both know, the Slayer never lies."

"Did Santa get stuck?"

"What's that?"

"In the chimney. Did you have to go unstuck him?"

Spike nodded, and it took all of Buffy's concentration not to break out in giggles at the seriousness on his face. "Turns out, the prat went a mite overboard on the Christmas pudding this year. Got himself reefed good and proper, and then started pissin' and moanin' for me to help him get out. Like _I'm_ responsible for his bloody sugar bent." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Even had to have the Slayer come up and give me a hand. _That's_ how tight he screwed himself in there, tryin' to get your swag to you."

Buffy could only watch as Holly leapt from her arms, all thought to her previous mood vanished. When Spike hooked his thumb over his shoulder, it took the little girl a bare five seconds to go rushing past him, to the small pile he'd left by the ladder.

"What did you do?" Buffy whispered. She was spellbound as Holly knelt by a small, hand-hewn cradle. Rough bark still covered its base, but its interior had been hollowed out, a trail of something lacy acting as a lining. She strongly suspected it had once been her favorite camisole, but considering the look that was currently brightening Holly's face, Buffy was willing to hold her tongue.

He seemed uncomfortable at the scrutiny. "Told you," Spike muttered. "Not interested in a load of whinging 'bout a not so merry Christmas."

Impulsively, Buffy pressed her lips to his, kissing him long and hard. "So that's why you didn't get any sleep yesterday," she said when she broke away. "You're such a softie."

"Am not! You take that back!"

"So you _didn't_ make toys for a little girl you barely know so she'd have a nice Christmas? And here I thought I was going to have to show you how great I think that was. With my mouth."

Beat.

"Did you see the skittles set? Took me forever to suss out what to use for a ball."

"Merry Christmas, Spike."

"What about the---?"

"Don't push it."

-----

For a holiday, Giles found Christmas breakfast a somber affair, Paul and Silas making uncomfortable small talk regarding the weather while Maria just regarded them all in that composed detachment Giles found so disconcerting. More than once, he caught her gaze on him, but even when he returned it with a direct aplomb, she didn't back down. Instead, she waited for him to look away first, and then usually set to stirring her tea while she remained lost in her ruminations.

So, when she asked him to stay after the dishes were cleared, he couldn't say that he was all that surprised. Something was brewing, and the fact that she dismissed Paul and Silas to speak with Giles in private confirmed that before she ever uttered a word.

"How did you do it?" Maria asked as soon as they were alone.

"Pardon?"

Her tone was even, the lines on her brow deepened as she pondered whatever dilemma was perplexing her. "I've watched the surveillance tapes so many times, the images are eroding, and yet, for the life of me, I can't figure out how you did it. You should be quite proud of yourself, though. Very few have ever mystified me as thoroughly as you have."

Giles shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Your phone call. To Joyce Summers? You alerted her to the accident. Keen work, by the way. I have to admit, I'm quite enamored with the way your mind works."

So that was her game. When she'd mentioned surveillance tapes, Giles had immediately jumped to the conclusion that she meant she knew about the book Paul had taken from her private study. This was about Joyce.

But…did tapes mean she was aware of the theft anyway? How much of their actions were being recorded? Care would have to be taken to ensure nothing more could compromise their research, but Giles was worried that it might already be too late for such measures.

"You're not denying it," Maria said, breaking the silence brought on by his contemplation.

"Would my doing so do anything to dissuade you of what you've already decided?" he countered.

"There's nothing for me to decide, since the facts speak for themselves. Joyce Summers knows of the car accident, where it occurred, and that her daughter's body wasn't found. She's there right now searching for her, and she only did this _after_ speaking with you." Her mouth hardened. "I don't enjoy having my hospitality disrespected so, Mr. Giles. I gave you the benefit of the doubt in contacting your Slayer's mother, and asked for nothing in return---."

"Beyond my complete dedication to this hunt of yours, you mean." It was his turn to steel, leaning forward in his seat to glare at her in barely disguised loathing. "Don't deign to pretend you're merely a gracious hostess, Maria," Giles said. "You have so many ulterior motives in this farce that it wouldn't surprise me to learn you work for Quentin Travers himself. It's only the fact that you're so casually unconcerned about Buffy's whereabouts that convinces me you're not. So, if you have a problem with me, or with the work I'm doing to try and prevent this catastrophe you're so convinced is going to occur, I highly recommend you tell me so to my face, rather than hide behind vague niceties and posh manners that, frankly, suit neither of us."

She smiled. The bitch actually smiled. It took all of Giles' control not to lean even further and wrap his hands around her throat.

"I like you," Maria said. "Your files were vague on your non-Watcher life so I only had hints of this…_Ripper_ to whom the reports kept alluding. This must be him."

"I'm sure you have a point in there someplace."

"My _point_ is that there is no room for insubordination under my watch," Maria replied. Her voice was ice, belying the smile that still curved her lips. "I've taken measures to get the issue with Mrs. Summers under my control again, so if you wish her to remain unharmed, there will be no more attempts to cripple my search for Holly. You may find the role of saboteur attractive, but is it really worth endangering the life of your Slayer's mother?"

His blood chilled at the threat. "What have you done?" he demanded.

"Nothing lethal. Yet."

"She has nothing to do with this. If you have a problem with my conduct, you take it up with _me_."

"But I have, Mr. Giles. This is why I'm speaking with you now."

He bit back the retort that rose automatically to his lips. Though he was glad that Joyce had understood his cryptic message enough to deduce the true events of Buffy's non-presence, he regretted that she was being put in harm's way as a result. Without knowing more, Giles lacked the power necessary to take control of the situation. For now, he would have to concede to Maria's authority.

"You will not hurt Joyce Summers," he said tightly. "I will not allow it."

"Then I suggest you stop interfering with outside matters and focus your attentions on locating Holly before time runs out for all of us. I can only guarantee her safety for as long as you cooperate."

Her insinuation brought his awareness back to alert. "What exactly are your intentions for Mrs. Summers?" he asked. Perhaps if Joyce were to be brought to the house, together they could find out what truly was going on.

"That's really none of your concern," Maria replied. For the first time, a glint of pleasure brightened her eyes, deepening the dread in Giles' stomach. "Let's just say, I'm very glad that Father Christmas isn't the only one who makes housecalls during the holiday season."

To be continued in Chapter 29: You Can Do the Job When You're in Town…


	29. You Can Do the Job When You're in Town

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Spike has surprised everyone by having gifts for Holly on Christmas morning, while Maria has informed Giles that he will keep himself in line or something untoward will happen to Joyce…

-----

With the smile plastered on her face for the second hour running that morning, Joyce couldn't shake the sound of her mother's voice out of her head, words she hadn't considered in decades haunting her more viciously than any of these three ghosts so determined to impede her search for Buffy.

_"Keep it up, and your face will freeze like that, young lady. Do you want to look like Aunt Dottie? There's a reason the dogs are afraid of her, you know."_

She couldn't bring herself to stop, though. Doyle was doing everything he could to keep her distracted from the truth of the situation, and though there was undoubtedly a certain charm to his attention, it was beginning to wear thin. Just like her patience. Was there a statute of limitations on how many drinking stories one person could tell?

None of this was helping Buffy. It was all a concerted effort to bore her into submission, Joyce was convinced. To make her give up looking for her daughter and return to Sunnydale to pretend nothing was amiss, when in actuality, _everything_ was wrong.

This was not the way to spend Christmas.

"Are you all right?" Doyle asked for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. "Still hungry, maybe?"

Joyce shook her head, glancing down at the half-eaten bacon croissant he'd managed to find for her. "Just not feeling very festive at the moment," she said.

"You know what I hear is festive? Your house back in Sunnydale. Comes complete with all the trimmings, and yours for the simple price of a tank of gas." When she just gazed at him in silence, he grinned. "Can't blame a bloke for trying, now can you? And I still think it's the best for you. You can't do anything around here, Joyce. You do, and Buffy could end up getting hurt, and we both don't want that."

Abruptly, she rose to her feet, prompting Doyle to hop up and immediately block her path to the door. "I want to take a walk," she said. "I need to clear my head and doing it in a hotel room that looks like it should feature in one of those expose-your-spouse's-affair videos on Sally Jessy isn't exactly the best place for me to do it."

"But…there's nothing open," Doyle argued. "It's Christmas morning."

"And yet another good reason not to be stuck inside the Huckleberry Motel-a-rama, don't you think?" Taking a risk, she pushed past him to reach her coat, stopping only when his hand closed over hers in the fabric.

"Give me your keys."

"Excuse me?"

"In the words of the almighty judge, Joyce, you're a flight risk. I let you out of my sight, I need to make sure you're not going to sneak off and do something crazy like go looking for Buffy on your own. The girls would skin me alive if I lost you. If I was alive to skin, that is."

She regarded him for a long moment, ignoring his feeble attempts to joke his way past her determination. Fresh air was fresh air. Maybe it was all she needed to find the solution to her situation. Inspiration often struck in the strangest ways.

"Deal," Joyce said. She waited until he released his grip, and then slid her hand into the coat pocket to extract the key ring. "I won't be gone too long. My thin California blood can't handle the cold for extended periods of time."

When he joined her in a smile, Joyce knew it was merely lip service. She would've frozen solid the previous day before stopping her search and they both knew it. Still, it was nice to have someone at least pretend to be on her side.

It was turning out to be the loneliest Christmas Joyce could remember having.

-----

The streets of the small town echoed in silence, the vestiges of a bedraggled holiday season hanging limply from telephone lines, a torn banner declaring "Merry Christmas" wreathing the main drag. Nobody noticed the dark van park along the ditch a quarter-mile away from the blinking red stoplight because there was no one around to see. It worked out well. Fewer bodies to leave in his wake.

His long rubber coat oozed like black tar around his seven-foot form as he strode toward the hotel. He didn't need it for the cold---his species was impervious to the inclement changes of the atmosphere surrounding them---but the garment served other purposes more valuable than weathercoating. Containing the venomous slime that slicked his body before he was ready to use it as a weapon, it also did so without seeping into the fabric. He'd ruined more than one good coat that way.

Dark glasses hid his obsidian eyes from the glaring reflection of the sun off the snow as he stopped in his paces. A woman had just exited the building at which he was aimed. Closer inspection told him it was the same woman Maria had ordered him to find. Good luck, that. Potentially, he could do this without destroying any personal property. Maria had requested as part of his service that it happen with as little attention from outsiders as possible. With a bonus involved, he would most definitely take any advantage he could get.

Her head was tilted down as she began walking around the edge of the building. Lost in thought. That was good. Her distraction would make this simple.

-----

_Maybe if I spoke with Jenny again. Maybe I can convince her Buffy needs me._

But she knew it was fruitless. Jenny had been firmer than her partners combined that Joyce stay out of it, looking upon her interference in much the same way Rupert sometimes made her feel when it came to Buffy's slaying. He didn't mean to, but there was the unmistakable air in his treatment of Joyce that anything demonic was beyond her realm of expertise, and that she would be better off tying on an apron and playing the mom role she'd been delegated. Most of the time, she let it slide. Being Mom was hard enough.

Now, however, was not one of those times.

The fresh air was startlingly fortifying, prickling her nose before taking a direct path into her veins to send them racing in renewed vigor. She inhaled once, twice, a third time, each second her lungs expanding one more step toward clarity. Maybe she could make a deal with Doyle. Surely there could be a compromise that could be reached---.

An acrid trail of _something_ wafting up from behind made her eyes burn, and Joyce's pace faltered as her senses went into automatic alert. Hands buried in her pockets searched for anything that could be a weapon, and she winced at the memory of passing over her heavy keyring to Doyle. She could use it just about now, and not just to drive the hell away. Without the ring, the only thing she had was a Tic-Tac box and what felt like a quarter. Unless whatever it was trailing her had a phobia of fresh breath, she was royally screwed.

It was the crunch of snow beneath a heavy tread that made her start to angle more quickly back toward the hotel. Inside. She'd go inside. Maybe it had an invite issue like vampires. Plus, she had Doyle to help her out.

And if it turned out to be one of the greasy truckers from the bar who'd just had an unfortunate accident with a cracked engine block, Joyce was going to get back into her car and drive back to Sunnydale because clearly she was just too stupid to do Buffy any actual good.

She caught a reflection in a passing window that stopped her breath.

Damn.

Even it wasn't a demon---which she highly doubted---anything that tall and that ugly could not be anything but bad news.

-----

The girls were going to kill him for letting her go.

_"Keep an eye on her,"_ they'd said. _"Don't let her out of your sight."_ And then Jenny's, _"She's crafty.__ Not all of Buffy's skills come from being the Slayer, you know."_

And he'd let her walk right out the door. OK, so she didn't have her car keys, but he had a sneaky feeling that wouldn't make a difference to Joyce Summers.

He was dead. Deader. He had to fix this.

Grabbing the spare room key, Doyle was out the door and scurrying toward the front lobby before another moment of his self-berating could color his mood. Maybe he'd just watch her from the front. If she really was just taking a walk, she wouldn't disappear very far and he wouldn't lose what little bit of trust he'd gained with her.

He smelled it far before reaching the lobby, though. Like rotten eggs with a three-day-old dirty nappy chaser. There was no mistaking that particular stench. And it wasn't good.

All he had to do was follow his nose, but when it came to chasing it down, Doyle didn't have to run far. The Ijua demon was just rounding the corner of the building out of his view when Doyle flew through the exit, and he broke into a dead run to try and intercept it.

He had no doubts it was here for Joyce. Ijuas were demons for hire, specializing in slow torture, and more than a few of them had been involved in the attack on Holly's previous guardians. Maria had a soft spot for working with them, but how she'd learned of Joyce's presence---or that she cared enough about it to act so decisively, one way or another---was not a debate subject Doyle had time to contemplate.

"Hey!" he shouted when he got the demon back in his sights. It stopped, and turned enough for Doyle to see Joyce just a few feet ahead. At the sound of his voice, she halted as well, and though he wanted to shout at her to keep going, he couldn't afford to divert any more attention away from the Ijua.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' to you," he continued nonchalantly. He slowed to a walk, grateful that the expenditure of energy was mostly done. He'd always hated that part of the good fight. "Are the fumes going to your head, too? I'd forgotten how bad you guys reek."

It wore a coat to cover its deadly slime, a fact for which Doyle was glad, but its eyes were hidden by a pair of sunglasses left over from a Miami Vice rerun. "Run away, little man," it rumbled. "You might have a chance to live then."

"Unfortunately, I've filled my running quota for the day. Looks like you're stuck with me."

"Pray to your gods, then. You are about to meet your end."

If he'd had time to react, Doyle would've rolled his eyes at the Ijua's stuffiness. No sense of style, these guys, but that was an observation for another day. Right now, he had to do what he could to get out of the bastard's path.

It lumbered forward with a grace not obvious from its size. Though he didn't see a weapon in its hands, Doyle wasn't willing to take the risk, and darted sideways and around, putting himself between Joyce and the hulking form. Swiftly, he reached into his pocket and extracted the keyring she'd relinquished earlier and tossed it backward without a glance, hearing it clatter to the concrete.

"Suggest you find your inner Kerouac," Doyle shouted to Joyce, ducking a wild swing from the Ijua. "This could get a little ugly. And that doesn't even count having to see this guy without his clothes on."

It was a spur of the moment decision. She might run, but she'd be alive. If she was alive, she was locatable. A dead Joyce was simply not acceptable.

The demon had given up talking in its determination to exterminate Doyle as a competitor. When it became obvious his punches were doing little when they _did_ manage to land, the Ijua slithered out of his coat, revealing the dark green slime of its skin.

"Hate to break it to you," Doyle said, "but---."

He grunted when a heavy backhand connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. A viscous trail smeared across his skin, and he wiped at it with barely disguised repulsion as he rose back to his feet.

"That wasn't very nice," he complained.

For the first time, the Ijua paused. "You…stand," it said, confusion faltering his words.

"And I sit, and I walk, and I've even been known to dosey-doe, given enough alcohol. Or a pretty girl. I've always been a sucker for a pretty face."

"But…but…"

"I should be writhing around on the ground, screaming because you've melted away half my face?" Doyle plunged his hand into the snowbank, wiping the excess slime from his skin. "That would be true if I was alive, mate. But I'm not. But I'm guessing you didn't know that."

The respite in the fight allowed Doyle the opportunity to glance past the demon and see the empty parking lot stretched out behind him. Good. Joyce had managed to escape. He'd done at least one thing right.

News that he wasn't going to be claiming two victims impelled the Ijua to turn away from his failed massacre, nose lifted to sniff out his favored target. Doyle frowned when the demon began marching out toward the street and away from the hotel, and darted forward to see what might have garnered his attention.

"She's long gone," he said in a futile attempt to distract him. "You might as well pack it up and tell Maria you blundered on this one. I hear she's very forgiving of people that screw up her orders."

Nothing. Not even a glance back.

He hadn't felt this ignored since Cordy had first started working with Angel.

"Maybe we can make a deal," he tried again. "I'm sure whatever Maria's paying you---."

Doyle was cut off by the sudden roar of an engine, and he jumped back just in time to see a Jeep slam into the Ijua he'd been following, sending it flying through the air to land with a sickening crunch on the concrete several dozen yards away. Behind the wheel, a very determined-looking Joyce stared ahead with white-knuckled determination, and it was a long moment before she relaxed enough to turn the key in the ignition.

"Is it dead?" she asked when she climbed out of the car.

She stopped in front of her dented grille, and both of them looked in the direction of the supine demon, motionless and silent except for the audible sizzle of its slime against the ice.

"Can't be," Doyle said. "Only way to kill Ijuas is to set them on fire."

"It was going to kill me." She seemed slightly dazed by the statement, as if the plausibility of being important enough to be assassinated had never occurred to her. "Is this about Buffy?"

"That would be one of the safest bets I'd ever make."

"But why? I don't even know where she is. Shouldn't they be trying to kill you? I mean, if they could, of course."

Doyle shrugged. "Who knows how Maria thinks?" he replied. "Maybe she got bored this morning. The important thing is, you're safe. Now, c'mon. We should get out of here while he's still out cold."

But Joyce wasn't moving. "This could be about Rupert," she mused out loud. "You told me she kidnapped him. Maybe he's in trouble."

"He's been in trouble since Maria decided she needed him for whatever part she cast him in this little drama of hers."

"We have to help him."

He was growing impatient, especially since he could see the Ijua starting to stir in the distance. "We can't do that if you're dead. Can we go, please?"

This time, she complied with his request, and climbed back into the Jeep with Doyle sliding in beside her. "There's got to be a way we can help, though," Joyce said. She turned the key, shifting into reverse. "I mean, if she sent him, won't he know where she is? Maybe we can---."

His hand shot out and grabbed the wheel, stopping her from pulling away from the hotel. "Wait." His thoughtful gaze returned to the demon on the ground. "Maybe there _is_ a way for us to turn this around for us."

-----

When she felt the tug at the hem of her shirt, Buffy looked away from the dish she was rinsing to see Holly holding up her plate in expectation. "There's still food there," the Slayer said. "I thought I said you had to eat the whole thing."

"But…I ate a whole inch."

Behind both of them, Spike snorted. "That's nothin', pidge," he said. "Slayer here ate a good five or six before even gettin' outta bed this mornin'---."

"Spike!"

"What? Am I wrong?"

She ignored his faux innocent query, and turned her attention back to Holly. "Are you still hungry?" she asked.

A small shake of the head.

"Well, it _is_ Christmas---."

The plate was shoved into her hands before she could finish the sentence, and Buffy watched as the child went running back to the toys she'd abandoned when lunch had been announced. She'd been gleefully playing ever since getting them, chattering happily to Baby as she tucked her away into the new cradle, pretending the bowling pins Spike kept calling skittles---_Wasn't that a candy? Couldn't the English ever call anything by its right name?---_were various items of food as she played house. It had been cute, but more importantly, it had kept Holly out of Buffy's hair while she did her best to get her brain around this new development.

They hadn't spoken, but there'd been no need to, the casual touches where Spike let his fingers trail over her arm when she passed by, and the glances he shot her through his lashes when he thought she wasn't looking, conveying more than if they'd used their mouths. It was probably just as well. With the exception of a handful of times, every opportunity she and Spike had to talk things out usually ended with some misunderstanding and a fight, and Buffy didn't want that for today.

Today was Christmas. The season of giving.

For being stuck in the middle of nowhere, hiding a kid from demonic forces Buffy couldn't begin to imagine---mostly because nobody would tell her a damn thing about them---and having a Watcher MIA, it was turning out to be a pretty darn good holiday.

She felt him approach her from behind, his hands skimming down her sides before settling on her hips.

"Wanna be my Christmas pudding, pet?" he murmured into her ear. He nibbled at the tender skin. "Could set you on fire and then eat you, good and proper."

"Later," she hissed, casting a sideways glance at Holly.

"Spoilsport."

"We had a deal, remember?"

Buffy heard him sigh, and the distance between them lengthened, but Spike didn't release her from his hold. "This goes away when we lose the ankle-biter, right?" he asked. "We get back to the Hellmouth and all bets are off. That's what you said."

"That's what I said," she repeated. In spite of her resolve not to, Buffy stiffened. "You're not asking because you don't believe me, are you?"

"'Course not." His mouth was back, this time suckling gently at her neck as his left hand snaked around to drift below the waistband of her jeans. "Just makin' sure _you_ haven't forgotten your end of the bargain."

A crash from the living room startled Buffy into dropping the dish she was rinsing, but it was the sudden wail that broke her away from Spike's embrace.

Holly sat amid the disarray of her toys, tears streaming down her face. Her new crib had toppled over when she'd tried placing everything inside, landing on her leg before spilling its contents to the floor. She continued to cry even when Buffy knelt at her side, pushing the cradle away to expose the torn leg of the girl's pants.

"It's just a scrape," she said with what she hoped was reassurance. "Hardly anything to be upset over."

The denouncement only set Holly to crying louder, her eyes squeezed shut as Buffy pushed the trousers leg up to expose the injury.

"Where's the volume control on the mite?" Spike complained.

"Real sensitive," Buffy said, rolling her eyes. "Can you get me the first aid kit before this gets any worse, please?"

The bark had done its damage even through the fabric of Holly's pants. The rough scrape that ran the length of her calf had blood already dripping down the pale skin, trickling onto Buffy's hand as she held the limb firm against the child's thrashing dismay.

"Any day now, Spike," she prompted.

The crying wasn't abating, and the blood was starting to seep between the Slayer's fingers. _When did she grow a pair of lungs?_ Buffy thought as she wrestled not to lose her grip. For some reason, Holly's struggles seem to be getting stronger, and it was taking all Buffy's power not to let go. Vaguely, she heard Spike rummaging around behind her, but the sounds seemed hollow and far away.

"Spike…?" she called out, though it was far weaker than she'd intended.

And then…

…the room went black.

To be continued in Chapter 30: Blue Christmas…


	30. Blue Christmas

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: A demon has attempted to kidnap Joyce per Maria's orders but was thwarted by Doyle and Joyce, while back in the cabin, Christmas lunch was followed by Holly getting hurt and Buffy passing out while tending her…

-----

When it came to the hunt, vampire hearing was excellent for detecting the faintest of clues to the prey's location. A reedy heartbeat. The quiet hitch of fearful tears. An inhalation while the victim held its breath.

When it came to babysitting, however, vampire hearing was excruciatingly disastrous, as it seemed small girls' piercing cries were designed especially to bypass any sense of tolerance and drive with unerring accuracy into the center of his brain. Frankly, Spike would've preferred being on the wrong end of red-hot pokers than listen to the wails that filled the room behind him. Proof positive that he hadn't gone completely soft yet, in spite of the Slayer's protestations to the contrary.

Muttering under his breath about possessed children and the worthiness of gag therapy, Spike grabbed the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard without looking back at the two females. Unexpectedly, the scent of fresh blood made his mouth water, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek in order to prevent the coppery heat from going to his head. It wasn't a reaction he anticipated. He'd lived with the aroma of Buffy's blood in the air for days now, though it got fainter as she moved past her injuries.

But this…

This was different.

Not from the fact that he hadn't eaten a human in weeks, though that was probably a contributory factor.

It smelled like…

Power.

Deep, cabalistic, ravenous power. Like he hadn't experienced since Prague and the mob so determined to subvert Drusilla's inherent talents for their own evil-doing.

It made him hard. Expeditiously, abruptly, dizzyingly hard, and he had to tighten his grip on the box in order not to succumb to the sudden desire to shift into gameface. The instinct was _that_ primal.

_Just beg off and hide in the shower until the chit's cleaned up_, Spike decided as he turned to give Buffy the first aid kit. Get away from the temptation and try to suss out exactly why it had gotten to him as strongly as it had.

That decision went straight out the window when he saw her slumped on the floor.

"Buffy!" Flying forward, Spike rolled her off Holly's lap where she'd obviously collapsed, scooping her into his arms to set her on the couch. Buffy's eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and rapid, and there was a bluish tinge beginning to creep up her arms.

"What did you _do_?" Spike raged, turning back to the child.

The viciousness of his question silenced Holly, driving her to stare at him with huge, tear-filled eyes. It lasted only a moment, though, before her crying returned, and she retreated to the corner to sob hysterically, leaving him in raucous confusion as he reverted his attention to Buffy.

The scent of Holly's blood was still strong, in spite of the increased distance, and Spike quickly spotted the fluid staining the Slayer's hands. This was where the bluing began, and when he picked one up to examine it closer, the iciness of her flesh almost prompted him to drop it again.

Right. Simple problem to solve. Get the blood off so it stopped doing…whatever it was doing.

Doing his best to block out the crying in the corner, Spike dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a towel, giving it a quick rinse before going back to Buffy. Swiftly, he washed her hands of the blood, not stopping until the last trace was gone, and then sat back on his heels to look up into her face.

Still unconscious.

His eyes drifted downward.

_And her hands are still blue. Bollocks._

"Don't do this to me, pet," he said. Resting his hand on her chest, he felt the skittering of her heart as it fought whatever poison had leaked into her system. The chill that he'd felt in her hands didn't reach here, and a quick inspection told him that it wasn't advancing further than it already had.

"Open your eyes, Buffy," Spike coaxed. He wanted to shake her, but fear of hurting her kept him motionless. His gaze, however, wasn't content to settle, darting in desperate pursuit of another symptom to treat. Finding…nothing.

He tried again. "Luv, you gotta let me see those beautiful eyes of yours. Let me know you're goin' to fight this with me."

And still…

Not even a twitch.

His fingers were shaking as he brushed back the hair from her face, searching for any other signs of the toxin. The bliss that had been his Christmas morning had been shattered so easily, all because of the damn toys he'd been such a sop for making in the first place. All because of the kid. The same kid who was still crying in the corner---.

"Will you bloody well _shut up!_" Spike's head whipped around to glare at the huddled girl, his brow ridging from the force of his anger. "I can't fuckin' think for all that caterwauling!"

She gulped before putting a hand over her mouth, as if that simple gesture would silence the sobs that still tore from her throat. It was better, but when Spike turned his back to her, the memory of the haunted look in her eyes stayed with him, the fear mingling with the pain to create an elixir that ate at his heart.

She was just a child. She didn't know better.

And he hated being the reason for the suffering when only minutes earlier, she'd worshiped the ground he walked on.

"Come here," he ordered, deliberately calming his voice and shifting back to human before looking at her again. At the silent query in Holly's aspect, he picked up the towel he'd used on Buffy and waved her forward. "Need to get you cleaned up."

She did as he commanded, a cowed hesitancy to the way she scooted on her bottom to get to his side. He was careful to keep himself situated between her and the unconscious Slayer; the last thing Spike needed right now was more of her blood getting into Buffy's system. Grasping the child's ankle, he pushed her trousers leg up to expose her scrape, and was immediately assaulted by the fresh scent of the crimson fluid responsible for their latest quandary.

His grip tightened instinctively, and both he and Holly cried out in pain as a result. Spike pressed the heel of his hand to his brow to try and force the headache away, and then shook his head to regain control.

Just a bit of blood. Nothin' he hadn't seen or tasted countless times before. Not anything to be writing home about.

Except just a few drops of it had knocked out one of the strongest Slayers he'd ever seen.

The urge to taste was overwhelming, but with Holly staring up at him, half-afraid that she was going to be the brunt of another verbal attack or worse, Spike knew he couldn't. It wasn't just that he couldn't predict what effect the blood would have on him. It was the desire to not hurt the child any more than he had already that made him grit his teeth and try again.

"Pretty powerful stuff there," he commented as he dabbed at the wound.

Every time she winced from the sting, Spike flinched from the stab of electricity the chip shot into his brain. It did not stop him from cleaning up the blood, though it did slow him down, and he was never more relieved than when the worst of it was gone and Holly was sitting back watching him finish the job.

"Sorry."

The single whispered word echoed within the room, bouncing around to whittle away the last of Spike's resolve to stay angry with the little girl, and he paused as he met her eyes. "You know what happened here?" he asked carefully.

There was a slight hesitation, and then the smallest of nods.

"What was it?"

"I hurt Buffy." Pause. "Is she dead?"

"No, pidge." The Slayer's still elevated pulse throbbed behind him. "Just a little poorly, is all."

"She's going to die."

The calm matter-of-factness of the statement rattled Spike, and he swallowed convulsively to quell the rising anxiety in his gullet. "Why do you say that?"

"The others did."

_Others?_

He wanted to barrage her with questions, but he knew that was the surest way to get her upset again. Instead, he finished wrapping the thin leg in gauze, securing the edges to keep any more blood from escaping, and then sat back on his haunches. "You've seen this before then, have you?" Spike said. "You know how to fix it?"

Holly shook her head. A fresh set of tears were finding their way down her reddened cheeks, but these were mute, as if all her energy had been sapped by her previous tantrum.

He didn't want to hear that nothing could be done. He wanted answers. He wanted Buffy well. He hadn't gone to so much bloody trouble saving her life and getting the differences sorted between them once and for all to have her die on him now.

He'd just found her.

"You go play," Spike instructed Holly gently. "I'm goin' to see to Buffy. Understand?"

"What…what are you going to do?"

"Anything I have to," he replied. He glanced back and saw the blue tinge still shading Buffy's hands. "Anything I have to."

-----

Though he knew he must, Giles couldn't concentrate on the text before him, the symbols swimming in sympathetic resonation with the words that echoed inside his skull. Maria's threat to Joyce Summers was far from idle; he had no doubt his hostess was sincere in her intent to use whatever means necessary to keep her Watchers in check, so, really, this was all his fault. If he'd only refrained from contacting Joyce, she would be safe back in Sunnydale and he wouldn't be sitting here worrying that he'd led an innocent woman to her death.

Well, potentially. Without contact from her daughter, Giles had little doubt her anxiety would've soon got the better of her. Perhaps Joyce would've stumbled upon the truth on her own. She was certainly intelligent enough to solve the mystery of the disappearance. Really, he had only sped the investigation along.

However, that didn't make what he was facing any better.

To his knowledge, no actions had been taken toward either Paul or Silas, which could only mean that Maria was unaware of the uprising within her ranks. Perhaps the surveillance of which she spoke didn't cover the entire house. She could merely be protecting the territories she considered most vulnerable. But wouldn't her private study fall within that realm? Surely, she had to know of Paul's theft. But if she did, then she would most definitely have taken _some_ sort of recourse. She'd reacted to a threat that was hundreds of miles away---as much as Giles knew---with greater force. That would dictate equally---if not more---stringent attention to a more localized threat.

His head ached. Giles had too many questions and not enough answers, and still the problem of Maria's missing daughter to solve. He no longer was entirely convinced that Maria's intentions were as benign as she wanted them to believe. A woman who would endanger the life of someone who merely presented a potential danger could be capable of much more.

Much, much more.

He jumped when a sharp knock at his door resounded through the library. "Come in," Giles called, and waited to see who wanted to bother him. Please don't be Maria, he thought with a tinge of desperation. _I simply can't stomach that woman right now_.

The door opened and Paul slipped inside, immediately closing it shut behind him. A sheaf of papers was tucked beneath his arm, and a bright glint in his eye gave him the appearance of a professor gone mad from some secret experiment. _Perhaps that's not too far from the mark._

"I do hope you're not terribly busy," Paul said quickly as he rushed forth to Giles' desk. "I've just found the most exciting translation---."

He stopped when Giles held a finger to his lips. "Take a seat," the elder Watcher said quietly, and rose just enough to pull over the spare chair so that it butted up against his own. He waited until a frowning Paul was sitting before leaning in to keep his words as private as possible.

"There's the possibility we're being recorded," he said. Carefully, he waited for the reaction, but when Paul jerked back and began staring into the ceiling's corners, Giles wrapped his hands around his junior's forearm and squeezed just enough to get his attention.

"We must appear as if we're collaborating on the text," he continued. "Act as naturally as possible."

Paul's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Are you certain?" he whispered. There was more than a hint of panic in his voice. "How do you know this?"

"Because Maria recorded a telephone conversation I had a few nights ago. She told me herself."

"Are our quarters under surveillance as well?"

"I don't know," Giles admitted. "I haven't been able to actually discern any recording equipment. But I think it's better to be safe than sorry, don't you?"

In spite of the assurance, Paul looked stricken, ready to bolt as swiftly as a wild foal. The papers he'd brought in with him rattled from the trembling that seemed to be overtaking his body, and it was all Giles could do not to slap some sense into the boy right there.

"I should go," Paul said, but Giles' grip on his arm prevented him from rising completely, and he sank back into his seat when the older man tugged.

"You came in here for a reason," Giles said. "Is it related to the text you showed me?" He was careful not to mention anything specific. On the chance Maria _was_ watching, it should appear that they were merely consulting on more of the same translations that had consumed them all along. As long as neither of them spoke of it directly, she may not realize what exactly they were discussing.

Instead of verbalizing his response, Paul nodded, setting the papers down onto the desk. The top sheet had a copy of the sketch that had been in the book, notes scribbled alongside the glyphs that had already been translated. The second and third pages were merely a series of passes given to the indecipherable aspects of the drawing, but the fourth was the one that made Giles pause.

He felt the eyes on him as he read and re-read the text. The younger Watcher had made considerable progress on the rendering, but the significance of even part of the translation would've been exciting.

"Is this correct?" Giles asked. Shuffling back to the first page and the full drawing, he rested his fingertip on the group of glyphs to the right of the altar. "These are _us_?"

"Most definitely." The vote of enthusiasm from his superior seemed to be all that was necessary to return Paul to his previous enlivened state. He fumbled with his notes to extract the page he wanted, pointing to various sections as he spoke. "It was quite curious, actually," he said. "The transitive didn't match the other symbols, even after I found what I suspected was the key. I even attempted subjugating it, which really shouldn't be necessary for such a labored---."

"The point, Paul."

"Right. Well, I decided to try it with the nominative, and it fell into place. Literally, these mean 'seers,' but I extrapolated our circumstances and---."

"'Seers' became 'Watchers'," Giles finished. He became thoughtful. "So, it would appear that we are to play some part in this ritual." He pointed to the third set. "Do we know what, or who, these are?"

For the first time, Paul hesitated. "I think I may need to examine those further," he said.

"Why? Is your translation incorrect?"

"It has to be. It says that the ritual is haunted."

The young Englishman was right; it had to be a mistake. A haunted ritual that he and his comrades would be partially responsible for? It was preposterous. And he said so.

"I know," Paul agreed. "I can't imagine why any of us would be party to such a barbaric practice. The text delineates a ceremony to bleed a child in order to summon the powers necessary to destroy the Slayer line---."

"That's what Maria said her daughter was planning. I'd hoped she was lying about that."

"The text supports her argument, unfortunately. She very well could've been telling us the truth all along."

Now, Giles understood Paul's excitement. It had unnerved the younger man to consider duplicity on the part of their hostess. His discoveries made it more difficult to discount other things she might've said.

"Let's go over what we've learned," Giles said. After the disaster with Joyce, he couldn't fathom Maria being anything but evil in this scenario. "According to Maria---."

"And the text. Don't forget the text."

"---and the text, there is magic that could drain all Slayer power into the person casting the spell, destroying the Slayer line and killing any person with Slayer ties." That had been the clincher for Giles' involvement. It was one thing to want to rid the world of a Slayer; it was something else entirely to lose Buffy in the arrangement.

"The text states that the spell requires a blood sacrifice," Paul continued. "A child whose function seems to be as a conduit through which the power is to flow."

"But what of the warriors?" Giles pressed. "Those were the first glyphs you deciphered. Are you wrong about those?"

"Definitely not. Perhaps they're necessary to subdue the child."

"Or they are its protectors."

"Then what does that make us?" Paul queried.

"I don't know," Giles admitted. Tossing his glasses onto the desk, he leaned back in his seat and wearily rubbed at his eyes. "I believe I'll need to think on this," he said quietly. His voice was exhausted, his mind reeling. "Alone, if you don't mind. There are too many variables that still don't seem to fit."

"Of course."

Giles remained silent while Paul gathered his work papers and hurried from the room. He didn't know what to think any more. His suppositions regarding Maria were in chaos in light of the new information, but he refused to acknowledge that his gut instinct about her were false. It was a puzzle, just waiting to be solved, but…where was the piece he was missing?

Something didn't fit.

-----

Her leg hurt. She was hungry. She really had to pee, but Holly was too terrified to act on any of her needs. She was too scared of inducing another round of Spike's wrath.

The vampire hadn't said another word to her since he'd told her to play. The sun was dipping down behind the horizon, and Holly's stomach was grumbling, but all Spike would do was sit at Buffy's side and talk to her as if she was awake.

He touched her a lot, too. He didn't seem to want to let go of her hands.

With all her heart, Holly believed that Buffy was going to die. That's what happened when her blood got out. Each and every time, the girl had died, though the little girl knew it hadn't been intentional. Doyle had said that they'd just been tests, that the Council was trying to make it so that Holly could have a normal life without being a risk to anyone.

That didn't change the fact that they were all dead, though. Or that it was Holly's fault.

She didn't want Buffy to die. She liked Buffy. She smelled nice and she was fun to play with when Spike wasn't around. When Spike was around, Buffy seemed to get all flustered and forget things, but Holly figured that was because they were in love. She hadn't seen much of it in her short span on this earth, but she'd seen some, and Doyle had told her the truth on their way here. Plus, Spike was always touching and kissing Buffy. That's what people in love did.

And now Spike was going to hate Holly because she was the reason he was going to lose Buffy.

She held Baby tighter in her arms, and watched Spike tuck the blanket in around the Slayer a little bit tighter.

_Please don't die, Buffy._

To be continued in Chapter 31: Children, Go Where I Send You…


	31. Children, Go Where I Send You

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Giles has learned more about the plans Maria has, while Holly's blood has knocked Buffy unconscious, leaving Spike frantically tending her…

-----

It wasn't until Spike's stomach growled that it dawned on him that he hadn't given Holly a second thought since planting himself at Buffy's side. She hadn't said a word, either, holding true to her promise to behave while he did what he had to, so when he finally rose from the floor, his knees stiff from being bent for so long, he wasn't surprised to see that she was no longer in the room.

Stepping silently to the open bedroom door, Spike peered into the darkness to see the huddled form curled into the pillows on the bed. Night had settled, and the cold light that filtered through the windowpanes only served to shadow Holly's face. She was awake, watching him, but the only way for Spike to be certain what was happening in that small head of hers was to vamp out and use his demon's senses to probe the shadows. He couldn't do that. He'd scared the little one enough that day.

She'd sneaked in under his radar. Once upon a time, Spike would've gloried in his ability to frighten the child. In fact, he'd been fairly miffed when she'd first arrived that she hadn't immediately run away from him, screaming in terror. Now, though, that same thought made his stomach churn. She wasn't so bad, for a little mite, and the fact that she trusted him so implicitly was surprisingly soothing. It had been a long time since anyone had needed or wanted him so, not since before healing Dru. He'd missed it.

"Missed dinner," he said nonchalantly. Folding his arms, he leaned against the door jamb. "Way I figure, we should just go straight to the dessert."

He felt the jump in her heartrate at the mention of the sweets, but otherwise, Holly didn't move. "Is Buffy OK?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"She's holdin' her own."

Which was the truth. While she had yet to wake up, the symptoms that had been prevalent from the contact with Holly's blood had halted, the bluing in her hands fading slightly, her pulse slowing even less. It gave Spike hope that he'd caught the toxin in time, but he knew that the longer she stayed unconscious, the more likely it would be he would lose her.

"Are you still mad at me?"

A small sniffle punctuated her question, and Spike sighed. "'Course not, pidge," he replied quietly. "It's not hardly your fault what your blood does, now is it?"

"I don't want Buffy to die."

"Me neither." With just a few long strides, he closed the distance between himself and the bed, sitting on the edge to gaze down at her. This close, he could see the silvery tracks left on her cheeks from where she'd been crying, and though they were dry now, Spike was certain that it would take little provocation to get the child going again.

"You feelin' up to talkin' to me about it yet?" he asked gently. He needed answers, and the fact that Holly had already intimated she'd seen this before was all that was necessary for him to go digging for them. The answers had to be locked up in that tiny skull of hers; he just had to find the right key to getting them out.

"Are you going to yell again?"

"Not if I can help it."

"You're scary when you yell."

His lips twitched. "Fangs don't get you but a raised voice will. You are one weird child, moptop."

She was silent, but slowly, her body unfolded itself. Reaching out a tremulous hand, Holly never stopped staring into Spike's eyes as she touched his arm, then shifted to pour herself onto his lap. "Please don't hate me," she said, her voice muffled from where she buried her face in his shirt.

Automatically, Spike's hand came up to caress the disheveled hair, resting his cheek on the top of her head. "Don't be daft," he chided. "As long as you don't get all stroppy again, you and me are goin' to be just fine." _Just Buffy we've got to worry about._

"Can I have hot chocolate?"

Simple request. Not so simple child.

"Sure, pidge," Spike said, rising to his feet. "Let's go get ourselves sorted."

-----

Forty-five minutes and three bowls of chocolate pudding later, Spike and Holly sat opposite each other at the table, each with their own cup resting in front of them. If a stranger were to observe, they would never have guessed that the child had had such a traumatic afternoon. Her chocolate-framed mouth was puckered up to blow across the top of her mug, cooling the hot cocoa that steamed inside, and her eyes were clear for the first time in hours.

"Feelin' better?" Spike asked. He'd been biding his time, softening the girl up for his questions, and, in his experience, nothing loosened tongues faster than Joyce's hot chocolate recipe.

Holly nodded. "It's hot," she said unnecessarily. She blew some more, causing faint ripples across the fluid's surface.

"Take it slow then," he instructed. "No reason to burn yourself if you don't need to." Carefully, he took a sip of his blood, eyes narrowed in assessment. What would be the best approach? He couldn't afford to scare her again or she'd clam up. But he didn't have the luxury of time on his side, either.

"Bet Doyle didn't get you hot chocolate when you were on your way here." Spike fought for casual, leaning back in his seat and propping his boots up on the table. "That was a long trip, I remember him sayin'."

She nodded. "And cold."

"Was it cold where you came from?" He had to zero in. Inch by inch. Question by question. Paint the picture of Holly's existence so that he could best help Buffy.

"Not inside."

"What was that like?"

"Dark."

This was going to be like pulling teeth. In the not so fun way.

She surprised him by elaborating.

"The dark made it safe. So nobody could go poof."

Spike perked up at that. "Why would anybody go poof?" he asked warily.

"'Cause sunlight can kill you," she answered simply.

He was silent while she sipped at her drink. It wasn't a universal you she had used in that declaration. Spike was nearly convinced that she'd been directing that you specifically at him. Meaning vamps. _How could she live among vampires?_

It would explain a lot, though, if she had. Why she wasn't startled by Spike's gameface. Why it took so much to scare her, as if she'd already seen the end of the world and was ready to face even more.

It just didn't make sense.

"Did you see a lot of 'em?" It was a risky question; the supposition could be completely wrong. He just had a gut feeling it wasn't. "Vamps, I mean."

"Some." The first sense of hesitation curbed her reply, and she was suddenly not meeting Spike's eyes. "Can I have more pudding?"

"Think you've had enough, pidge."

"Please?"

Rolling his eyes, Spike reached behind him and grabbed the bowl from the counter. Before he pushed it in front of her, though, he took his feet off the table, narrowing his eyes as he deliberately hardened his demeanor.

"You know it doesn't make a difference any more, don't you?" he asked. "What happened to you before…none of it means bugger all in here. It's OK to talk about it."

"But…I wasn't s'posed to see."

Spike grinned. "Snuck out to take a gander, did you? That's my girl."

When he pushed the bowl across to her, Holly relaxed back into her prior contentment, picking up the spoon resting in the pudding to start eating it again. "They were always fighting," she said between bites. "They were loud."

"Who were they fighting? Each other?" He imagined a pseudo, all-vamp Bloodsport, which, while it sounded like fun, didn't make a lick of sense when thinking it was where Holly was kept. But her next words dashed that image to the ground.

"No. They always fought the other girls. The ones like Buffy."

And then it clicked, and the picture it drew was just a tad more repellent than the gladiator scenario he'd originally envisioned.

It was Bloodsport, all right.

Vamps versus Slayers.

Except there were only the two, which meant they were Slayer wannabes instead.

That's what it had to be, some sort of training ground for potential Chosen Ones. Brought together by the Council of Wankers in a contained environment to give their girls some firsthand experience without having to set them loose on the field. It didn't surprise him. After seeing firsthand what the American government had organized, imagining a board of Englishmen who'd been in the demon business a hell of a lot longer doing something equally organized seemed completely reasonable.

Spike's eyes narrowed as he watched Holly attack the rest of the pudding. That's what she'd meant by _others_. She'd seen potential Slayers die from being exposed to her blood. That's why she was so frightened for Buffy. But why put a child so deadly in such close proximity to those she could hurt?

It explained why she'd be wanted by someone with less than well-intentioned plans. If it didn't directly affect Buffy, Spike would almost be impressed with the idea of harnessing such a weapon. It sounded like something he would've tried himself, back in the day.

"These people who watched you…they sound like me?"

A flash of confusion crossed her face, but then Holly nodded. "And Buffy. Both of you."

An international effort, then. Didn't necessarily preclude the Council from being involved.

"Ever hear of someone called a Watcher, moptop?" Her blank look was the only answer he needed, and Spike lapsed into another silence as he mulled over what he'd learned.

It was a gentle tug on his shirt's hem that broke him from it. Glancing down, Spike saw Holly's upturned face, the chocolate staining her mouth. "You can't still be hungry," he commented.

"Did you talk to Santa?" she asked. Her eyes were saucers, luminous in the orange-red ambience of the room, and they startled Spike with their solemnity.

"Told you I did."

"Did he tell you I wasn't bad?"

"He left you prezzies, didn't he?"

"But…my blood is bad."

Spike's head tilted. "Oh, pidge, your blood's just a small part of you. Told you, none of this is your fault. You gotta get that through your head."

"It hurt Buffy."

He couldn't very well deny it, not when Holly knew all too well the effects it had, but giving her the affirmation just made her face crumple again.

"I wish my blood was back in me," she whispered. "I'm never getting hurted again." She looked up before he could respond. "Can we get it out of Buffy? Maybe then she won't die."

Shaking his head, Spike pulled her onto his lap, rocking her against him as she buried her face in his chest again. "What happened to the others?" he murmured. He deliberately kept up the soothing rhythm to keep her at ease. The last thing he needed right now was another hysterical fit. "Did you ever see them?"

"Their skin got all funny. And blue."

"Funny how?"

"It got wrinkly and cracked. Like the muffins Buffy forgot in the oven today."

Spike stopped. Though there was definite shading to the Slayer's skin, it was still perfectly smooth and soft, no evidence of the symptom Holly was describing anywhere in sight. "How long did it take in the others?" he asked. "To die, I mean. Was it as long as it's been for Buffy?"

Pulling away, she looked up at him and shook her head. "They were all faster. It was scary."

Swifter responses to the poison. Symptoms Buffy wasn't exhibiting. Maybe the Slayer was going to shake this after all. The others had only been fledgling slayers; they didn't have the same constitution Buffy did.

Hope flared bright in Spike's chest as he squeezed Holly close, but he swallowed to keep it from taking root too deeply. He would just have to continue a constant vigil; he would ensure Buffy survived this if it killed him.

-----

It took all of Joyce's willpower not to look over at the demon still strapped to the chair in the corner, but at least it wasn't making those godawful screeching sounds from Doyle's torment. She could hear the telltale drip of what she assumed was both its blood and its…venom? Icky, gooey, slimy sweat? She didn't know. She didn't care. She was just glad she didn't have to watch any more.

After heaving the demon into the back of her car---and she didn't even _want_ to consider what the cleaning bill for that would be, or how she was _ever_ going to get the smell out of the upholstery---Doyle had instructed her to drive a few miles down the highway before pulling in at the gas station that was closed for the holiday. He'd broken into the garage with veritable ease, and proceeded to secure the demon before stepping out to summon his ghost partners in crime. Joyce had only watched as the three argued about his idea, the women vehemently against the notion of more violence while Doyle attempted convincing them that it was their only remaining option.

They had eventually caved, but none of them were willing to let Joyce leave, fear that she would still go off in search of Buffy tempering their assertions. They had, however, agreed to keep her company while Doyle got to work. It was just too bad that his work was loud and stinky.

"Well?" Jenny asked, as Doyle stood in front of them wiping his hands on a spare towel he'd found lying on a nearby toolbox.

"Remind me never to suggest torturing an Ijua for information again," he said. His nose wrinkled. "I don't suppose we could go back to the hotel and talk about this? I could really use a shower."

"What did he tell you?" Jenny pressed. "Do we know where Maria is? Are we going to be able to get to her before she manages to find Holly this time?"

"Yes and no. Yes, I know where she is, but no, we won't be able to get to her. She's got herself guarded against the mystical. She's not exactly stupid, our Maria."

"Well, I guess that's that, then." Jenny sighed. "She won't leave the shielding of her magic until she's certain she can get to Holly, and we can't get through it to stop her. So much for that idea."

Joyce just watched in amazement as the trio turned away to tend to the unconscious demon. "So…that's it?" she asked. "All this time, and all this work, and you're just giving up?"

"There's nothing we can do, Joyce," Doyle said.

"Maybe there's nothing _you_ can do," she replied. "But the last time I checked, I was just a good old-fashioned human who happens to be the mother of the Slayer. Is that normal enough to get past this…mystical shielding this woman has?"

The ghosts looked at each other before turning back to Joyce. "You're kidding, right?" Jenny queried. "You know we can't let you get involved."

"I know that you won't let me go to Buffy to help," she shot back. "But you're stuck with me until you let me do _something_. I'm already involved, in case you hadn't noticed. Why not put me to use?"

"Because it's dangerous." The soft-spoken third of the group spoke up for the first time since Doyle's announcement. "Maria's an incredibly powerful witch. For whatever reason, she wanted you dead. Sending you in would be a sacrifice without benefit. It's unthinkable."

"Then I suggest you start thinking again." Joyce folded her arms across her chest. "If you thought I was stubborn before, you ain't seen nothing yet."

-----

The knock at her door was almost too faint to be heard. Setting aside the maps she had been examining, Maria lifted her head to call out the permission for entrance.

"You asked to see me?" Silas said, poking his head through the crack in the door. His eyes were jumpy, darting from her, to the striking clock on her wall, back to Maria, and then over his shoulder, as if he expected someone to approach him from that direction.

"Come in," she repeated, and gesticulated toward the door he left ajar. "Please close that." She waited until they were sealed inside, and Silas had narrowed the distance between them by a few steps. There was no way she could not notice the slight sheen to his forehead, nor the way he found it so difficult to meet her eyes. Vaguely, she wondered when it was Silas had grown so frightened of her.

"How are you?" she asked. "Have you had a nice holiday?"

She needed to set him at ease before she could even consider broaching her request. In his current state, he would bluster and sputter, and, without a doubt, fail the instant he came into contact with the others. That would never do.

"It was lovely, thank you." Silas' response was automatic, his hands twisting in front of him. "I hadn't thought to have so many treats from home. It has been…a long time."

"I'm glad. I hate to think that you would be cheated of such a little thing. Your dedication to your tasks has been overwhelming."

He bloomed under the praise, exhaling loudly as he finally sank into the chair opposite her. Maria was lying, of course. Silas was good at what he was doing, but his output was greatly put to shame by Rupert Giles. It wasn't just for his skills that she'd selected him, though. With his resounding guilt about killing his Slayer---regardless of whether or not she would've died anyway---she knew he would be entirely too easy to manipulate into doing her bidding.

It was the primary reason all three of the Watchers had been chosen.

Rupert Giles, fired from his post because he'd broken one of the Council's vows of secrecy in betraying the truth of the Cruciamentum to his Slayer.

Paul McCallister, headboy at the Academy until his romantic entanglement with a Potential had resulted in the slaughter of a dozen fellow students, the direct result of abandoning his post for a clandestine rendezvous.

And Silas Geen. Whose Slayer lived recklessly in one of the most virulent countries in the world. Whose Slayer contracted HIV, and who, under confidential order from Quentin Travers himself, was forced to kill her before the disease could. Whose guilt from having done so compelled him to quit the Council in disgrace, and haunted him to this day.

The same man who was so desperately seeking redemption for what he felt was the ultimate betrayal, and was convinced he was going to find it under Maria's direction.

A fool.

"I've called you here for a reason, Silas," Maria said softly. He was instantly at attention again, leaning forward to hear what she had to say. "You'll notice Paul and Rupert are not present. That's because you're the only one I think I can trust."

He seemed shocked by such a blunt admission, and finally nodded. "Thank you," Silas said. "I just…I want…"

She smiled. "I know. It's what we all want." She feigned distress. "Well, I believe it's what you and I want." Quickly, she outlined her request, ignoring the blanching of the Watcher's features. Even when it took a moment afterward for him to agree to it, she remained resolute.

One could never have enough precautions. If Rupert failed to respond to the threat on Joyce Summers, she wanted to be the first to know about it.

This time, the power would be hers.

To be continued in Chapter 32: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen…


	32. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Maria has recruited Silas for some secret task, Joyce is determined to go to Maria's though the ghosts are attempting to stop her, and Spike has learned more about the truth of Holly's background…

-----

Though her bedtime had long come and gone, Holly was showing no signs of being ready to sleep. For the last half hour, she hadn't stopped moving, running circles around the table, crawling underneath it, standing on one chair and then hopping to the next, and Spike was beginning to suspect the chocolate pudding plan had backfired on him in ways he hadn't envisioned. He didn't correct her, though, because frankly, it was going to take a hell of a lot more effort to stop her than to just watch and make sure she didn't bump into anything and decide oozing lethal fluids all over the joint. Instead, Spike decided to be a bit more proactive and set to his next attempt in helping Buffy fight the toxin.

One thing Holly had said kept coming back to him. Though he knew it wouldn't do any good at this juncture to try removing the poison from Buffy's system---with the amount of time that had elapsed, there was no way Spike could guarantee that her blood hadn't already commuted the contagion---he rather liked the idea of sweating some of the malignancy from her flesh. Like a fever before the advent of aspirin. There was nothing like a good old-fashioned cleansing when it came to purification of the body.

Plus, it gave him a really good excuse to lay his hands on her. He was fairly certain she wouldn't have protested anyway, but it was hard to see such a gorgeous creature, even unconscious, and not want to touch her in some way.

Quickly, he had the bathroom full of steam, the bath raging as hot as he could get it, almost every container from the kitchen scattered about with boiled water heating the air. Holly watched him curiously as he worked, but never said a word, not even when he carried Buffy from the couch and set her on the towel he'd stretched out on the middle of the bathroom floor. She just poked her head in through the open door until Spike's terse, "The bloody steam stays in here a sight longer if you leave it closed, pidge," prompted her to slam it shut again.

His fingers danced over Buffy's clothing, stripping her with relative ease. "And no reason for you to bitch at me when you wake up," he commented to the sleeping Slayer as he tossed her top onto the growing pile. "Didn't pop a single button."

Her heartbeat was stronger than it had been, a slowing tympani that made him want to shout for joy. Quickly, he glanced down at her hands. Though there was still a tinge to them, they were the same color as if she'd just gone outside without her gloves for a few minutes. Almost natural.

"Knew you could do it," Spike said gleefully. "Nothin' can take my Slayer down. Not even a touch of bloodspawn out there." Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, her skin already slick with the perspiration that was being drawn from her body. "You just rest up," he murmured. "I've gotta---."

A loud crash echoed from the outer room, followed quickly by the whispering of tiny running feet and a slammed door.

Spike sighed. "Gotta go see what the moptop did this time," he said, straightening. He cocked his head as he looked down at her, waggling a knowing finger. "Don't think I don't know you did all this just to get out of the babysitting gig. And don't think I'm not goin' to remember after you're back up to snuff. I plan on takin' full advantage of any and all guilt you might acquire 'bout me playin' Mary Poppins while you're out for the count."

Though he half-expected a sly rejoinder to come from her as he closed the door behind him, Spike was quickly diverted from the business of Buffy to the Christmas tree that now leaned askew against the window. A smattering of ornaments dotted the floor, and there was already a small fire blazing near the hearth where a swag that had been adorning the sill had fallen to the floor and been lit by a rogue spark.

"Holly!" Spike roared, as he jumped forward to the fireplace. Vaguely, he heard a muffled whimper from the bedroom, but it was soon drowned out by his boots stomping out the flames, his feet kicking the other loose ornaments beyond the fire's reach. "Holly!" he repeated. "Get your ass out here, or so help me if I have to come get you, you'll be drained before you can say 'Merry Fuckin' Christmas'!"

He heard the door creak open, but waited until the last of the fire on the floor was out before twisting to look back. Holly stood in the doorway, eyes wide. No longer was she wearing her clothes, however; in an effort to obviously gain bonus points against her accident, she had stripped down and put her nightgown on.

Inside out.

"What the hell happened here?" Spike demanded. He pointed at the tree. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to get that soddin' thing to stay up? Not to mention gettin' pricked to hell and back, and not in the fun way, either."

"You're yelling," she said in a small voice.

"Bloody right I am. I'm right brassed off with you. All I asked was for you to mind yourself while I sorted Buffy out, and you almost managed to burn the bleedin' house down."

"I'm sorry."

"As you should be. Are you _tryin__'_ to get us all killed? Not exactly flame-retardant here, you know. You could've had a big pile of ash watchin' after you if that little bonfire had got itself any bigger."

"I'm sorry."

"Bet you are, missy." His lips thinned. "When Buffy wakes up, you're goin' to be the one to tell her you wrecked some of her deck the halls glory. No way am I takin' the blame for you on this one."

Her eyes darted to the bathroom before returning to Spike's face with a guileless earnestness. "Did you make her better?"

"What? No, I'm just tryin'---." He stopped, head tilting as he raised a finger to point at her. "Distracting me from what you did isn't goin' to work. Who do you think invented that little trick? Now. What're we goin' to do about this?"

"About what?"

"This." Spike waved at the lopsided tree.

"Fix it?"

He had to ball his hands into fists at his side in order not to explode any worse than he had. "I _know_ we're goin' to fix it," he replied through gritted teeth. "What I meant was---."

The now too-familiar of something crashing floated from outside the cabin, alerting Spike's senses and causing Holly to shrink back into the darkness of the bedroom.

"It wasn't me! It wasn't me!" she cried out.

"Sshhh," Spike said. When the cabin was silent, he pricked his ears, straining to hear what else might be on the other side of the front door.

And heard the unmistakable sound of voices.

Three, to be exact.

Bollocks.

Darting across the room, Spike had his hand clamped over Holly's mouth before she could cry out, scooping her under his arm and heading for the ladder. "Stay up here," he instructed as he set her down in the loft.

Her eyes glowed from the reflected firelight. "I don't do down," she whispered.

"Right," he said with a half-smile. "Be right back."

Sauna interruptus, Spike thought as he let himself back into the bathroom. As quickly as he could, he gathered Buffy into his arms and went back to the ladder. Sorry it couldn't be longer, luv.

Holly just watched as the vampire settled Buffy onto his bed, drawing the blankets up over her and gently brushing the hair off her face. "Are you going to get the bad men outside?" she said.

"Yeah." He was halfway down the ladder when he realized the child had yet to move from the spot he'd placed her, stock-still as if her feet had been riveted to the floor. Behind him, he could hear the voices getting louder, but the fear that was shining in Holly's face made him hesitate.

"Need you to do something, pidge," Spike said conspiratorially. "I need you to keep an eye on Buffy, all right? Make sure she's all cozy-like while I tend to business outside. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded, and then bit her lip. "Will that make it all better?" she asked.

"Huh?" There were footsteps on the porch now; he had to get outside and stop whoever it was before they made it inside. Even if they were vampires, the fact that Spike had crossed the threshold without an invite meant they could, too; it was up to him to ensure these wankers didn't get anywhere near either of his girls.

And he wasn't even going to consider the possibility that the intruders might be human.

"Will I still be in trouble?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't make a noise 'til I come back up here, and we'll see."

-----

With one of Buffy's short daggers tucked into his boot and a stake in his pocket, Spike slithered through one of the windows in the back of the cabin, falling to the ground he'd cleared the previous night with a barely audible crunch. Other than the vestiges that remained from his tryst with Buffy in the clearing, there were no scents of human in the air, nor was there the familiar pulse of heartbeats. Their visitors were demon. It was the best news he'd had since Buffy'd fallen unconscious.

With his usual feline grace, Spike crept around the side of the house, ears straining to catch the conversation that was happening in the front. The snippets he heard were mildly encouraging.

"You knock."

"No, _you_ knock."

"You do it. I knocked last time."

"When I knock, I get a fangful of nothing, if memory serves. I'm not getting gypped again."

Two vampires, arguing between them. Thank god they hadn't tried the door yet.

Spike's senses stretched to try and suss out the location of their comrade. He was certain he'd discerned three voices, but only two of them were talking. He couldn't afford to be surprised when he made his attack.

"The blood's already flowing in there," the first one whined. "Can't you smell it?"

"Which is why---."

"Will you two just shut up?"

There it was. The third. A woman.

Spike smiled.

He couldn't have picked a better way to vent his frustration from the past six hours. Well, it would've been nice if it was Angel who was soon to be on the other end of his fist, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"If you two don't stop your bickering, I'm going to throw you back into the invisible wall and hold you there until you fry, do you understand?" the woman barked. Silence. "Now, we have to be smart about this. Norris, you knock. Nick, you hide over here with me."

"Me? How come I have to knock?" The first man he'd heard, though now the unmistakable whinge in his voice made him sound ten years younger.

"Because you don't look like chopped liver from trying to headbutt your way past that electrical wall," she replied.

Spike had to stifle his chuckle. Stupid gits. Obviously, they'd wandered through the barrier and couldn't get out again. Just a few demons looking for a meal. Too bad they weren't going to find it here.

Inch by inch, he neared the corner of the cabin, and peered around to see a pock-faced young man shuffling around on the porch. The distinct gleam of two sets of gold eyes glowed between the trees, and Spike visually measured the distance separating him from them. Thirty or so yards. Close enough for him to get to, but it would leave the front door unprotected, and if the prat decided to test the boundaries…

"Nobody's answering," the vampire on the porch called over his shoulder.

"Idiot," Spike heard the woman mutter. He grinned. He knew the feeling of being surrounded by imbeciles.

The other male emerged from the darkness. Without the canopy of the trees to hide him from the moonlight, Spike could see the vicious burns that left his forehead and left side of his face in savage, crimson furrows. Even without them, though, he still wouldn't have been remotely on the pretty side, a bulbous nose and tiny eyes giving him the appearance of a young WC Fields. It was going to be fun to rough him up even more.

"Let's just break it down," Nick said.

The woman sighed before stepping out to join him. She was old enough to be their mother, and with a sudden clarity, Spike realized that she actually was. A little vampire family stranded for the holidays. It was almost funny.

"How many times do we have to go over this?" she said. She hit Nick on the back of the head, eliciting a frustrated growl from the younger demon. "Norris, get down here. You two are just lucky it's the middle of the night and whoever's inside is too drunk on their asses from their Christmas celebrations to hear you out here."

He waited until the third were together on the ground before making his move.

"And who's that tap, tap, tappin' at my front door?" Spike drawled. He sauntered forward, thumb hooked through his beltloop, affecting his best cock of the walk attitude. It had been months since he'd been able to strut as if he owned the place, and this far from Sunnydale, there was little chance that knowledge about his chipped status would get in his way from preening as the superior vampire he was. He was going to have his fight, and he was going to have some fun, too, getting a measure of demon respect that was his long delinquent due. Maybe there really was a Santa Claus.

The two males bristled, chests puffing in a vain attempt to show their superiority. But it was the narrow-eyed assessment of the mother that Spike truly cared about. She was obviously the boss here; if she saw him as a true threat, half his work was done.

"This isn't your place," Norris accused.

Spike cocked an eyebrow. "Really?" He leapt to the rail and walked the length of the porch like a tightrope before stopping to lounge against the post at the stairs. "What makes you say that?"

"Because there's humans inside," Nick said.

"You smell the blood, don't you?" Spike questioned. "You think that's just an accident?" As if to make his point, he let his tongue snake over the edge of his teeth before making a smacking sound with his lips. "Let's just say, it was a very merry Christmas this year."

The men exchanged a glance. "You're lying," Norris said.

With an exaggerated sigh, Spike hopped down from his perch and stepped to the front door. "Shouldn't argue with your elders," he said. Silently praying that Holly was sticking to her promise to behave in silence this time, he opened the door and crossed the threshold. Stopping just inside, he turned and leaned against the jamb, an indolent smirk highlighting the amusement in his eyes. "Too bad we didn't make a wager on it. Could've used a few bob when I got back to civilization."

The trio of vampires stiffened, closing their ranks instinctively. "I know they don't look like much," the female said, "but Nick and Norris here were state champion wrestlers before they were turned."

"Someone's read just a bit too much Hammett, I think," Spike drawled. Behind him, he could hear the faint tread of footsteps, but didn't dare look back to see what was going on. Instead, he stepped back outside, pulling the door closed. "You really think the Wonderless Twins here can take me?"

"Maybe not," she replied. Her face shifted, her fangs extending. "But the three of us might just stand a shot."

Spike met them halfway, launching forward with his coat flaring out behind to take the two men down into the snowbank. As the three bodies rolled with snarls and growls, and Spike felt the comforting crunch of bones within his grip when he grabbed the nearest wrist and twisted, a sense of peace pervaded his bones.

Taking his pent-up frustration on a trio determined to steal his little corner of the world was the best medicine he could've prescribed himself. The only thing that could've made it better would've been to have Buffy at his side.

-----

She blinked. It didn't take Willow's superior deductive reasoning to figure out she was back in Spike's bed. She just wasn't sure how she got there. The last thing Buffy remembered was trying to hold Holly still, waiting for Spike to bring over the first aid kit so that she could stop the bleeding on the girl's leg. Her hands had started feeling extremely cold, and the next thing she knew, the room was spinning around her.

_Did I black out?_

It was the only explanation, but she had no idea why. She _did_ know that her hands currently felt like they weighed about thirty pounds each, and they were still chilly while the rest of her seemed to have been dipped into boiling water. Why was she so wet?

She stirred beneath the blanket, and then froze.

Naked, too. Or nearly so.

That could only be because of Spike.

"Spike?" she called out. Struggling to prop herself on her elbows, the sudden rush of feet filled the loft space, and she fell back onto the mattress just as Holly's head appeared at her side.

"Buffy!" the child squeaked excitedly, and then instantly shrank, glancing back at the ladder fearfully as her lips pressed together.

"What's wrong?" she asked. Focusing her will on the simple act of lifting her arm, she frowned when Holly visibly pulled away from her touch. "Where's Spike?"

"Outside." She was whispering now, cupping her hand around her mouth to direct the sound.

"Can you go get him? I want to know what's going on."

Holly shook her head. "I don't---."

"---do down," Buffy finished. She closed her eyes and sighed, suddenly exhausted. "Right. I forgot."

With the room vanished from her sight, her other senses seemed to sharpen, and Buffy could hear the faint din of shouts and bangs filtering through the thick walls. It sounded like a fight. What had happened while she was in unconscious?

"Are you better?"

Holly's whisper was louder with her eyes shut, and Buffy nodded, though the effort it took made her head feel like it was going to fall off her neck. "What happened?" When she was greeted with silence, she opened her lids to see the girl staring at her in fear. "Why are you upset?"

"I hurt you." The tiny confession could hardly be heard, but the pain behind it screamed. "I'm sorry."

"You…" And then she remembered the blood trickling through her fingers, how the funny feelings in her body hadn't started until after she'd come into contact with it. At least she knew why someone would be after the little girl now. In the way of weapons, that one was a doozy.

"It's OK," Buffy said. "See?" She gathered the remainder of her strength and rolled onto her side to face Holly, beads of sweat popping out onto her brow. "I'm doing better already."

Wide eyes swept over the bed before returning to Buffy's face. "You're not mad?"

"No, of course not." For the first time, she noticed the seams on the child's nightgown on the outside of her garment, the tag poking out at her nape. "Spike dressed you, didn't he?"

The front door opened and shut, the heavy stomp of Spike's tread preceding a charged shout of excitement from his lungs. "Holly!" he bellowed, and then his step was on the ladder, his bleached head appearing over the floor's edge just a split second before he leapt to the upper level.

His duster was coated in ash, a dark smear highlighting the angularity of his right cheekbone. Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead, and the knuckles on his left hand were red from abrasions, but in spite of his less than ideal presentation, Spike's eyes glittered with a satisfied bliss, the energy still coiled in his limbs driving him to bounce on the balls of his feet.

He froze when he saw Buffy staring at him, but it lasted only a second before he was at her side, his hands cupping her face as he took possession of her lips in a hungry kiss, driving her to respond though she knew the strength she was expending should've been reserved for something more vital like healing.

"Knew you could bloody well beat it," he said when he pulled away. He shot Holly a look of smug satisfaction. "Maybe now you'll start believing me, won't you, moptop? Ol' Spike knows his Slayer better than _anyone_. Don't you ever believe any different."

The custodial command of his tone sent a surge of heat through Buffy's veins, but she kept a calm exterior as her gaze swept over his disheveled appearance. "What have you been doing?" Buffy asked. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Feel fuckin' fantastic." Ignoring Holly's widened eyes at his cursing, he leapt back to his feet, shrugging out of his coat to let it fall to the floor before heading for the dresser. "Had a few vamps stumble through our little electric fence, but took care of them right quick. Best fight I've had since those walrus guys took a swipe at us."

"How many is a few?"

"What's that?" His head was ducked, his hands busy pawing through his clothes. When Buffy repeated her question, Spike just shrugged. "Oh, five, maybe six. Lost count after the first two." With a clean tee and jeans dangling from his hand, he was back for another kiss, leaving her breathless when he finally broke away.

"No goin' back to sleep," he ordered as he headed for the ladder. "I'm just goin' to wash up and when I'm done, I'll put the little one to bed proper. Then, you and me…" His eyes raked over her bare shoulders, the corner of his mouth lifting. "…are goin' to have a little _chat_."

And with a wicked grin, he disappeared down the ladder.

-----

Though the hour was late, Giles was still awake, scribbling at his notes with a ravenous attention that hadn't been present in his work since researching the truth behind the Mayor's ascension the previous year. His pen scratched along the paper, and when he'd filled as much of it as he could, the Watcher turned it over to begin writing on the other side, playing with the words he'd concretely translated while rearranging those that were less firm.

He had to be quick. Silas had poked his head in earlier and asked to speak with him and Paul in private before retiring, on a matter that was "of the utmost importance." There'd been an excited gleam in the florid face, and Giles had agreed, more out of curiosity about what could've caused such a reaction in the other man than eagerness to share any of his findings. There had been little camaraderie between the trio since the argument about Maria's book, so the fact that Silas was so keen to collaborate again was most definitely odd.

When the knock came, Giles shoved the notes from Paul's discoveries into his desk drawer before calling out for the arrivals to come in. Silas entered first, with Paul directly on his heels, and they closed the door behind them as if privacy was their primary concern. Under his arm, Silas had a stack of books, and he set them down on the corner of the desk when he approached.

"Have you found the daughter?" Giles asked. There was no need for niceties. He had no interest in being this man's friend; any Watcher who could arbitrarily kill his Slayer wasn't worthy of his respect.

"Better." Silas pulled a thin volume from the middle of the stack, and slid it across the surface. "I've found proof of what Maria is actually planning."

With a frown, Giles glanced at the book's spine and noticed the green ribbon marking a center page. Opening the text, he only began skimming the contents when his eyes narrowed, his chin lifting to stare at the other man.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"The same place young Paul found the other book," came the reply. Casting a surreptitious eye toward the corners of the room, he leaned in to explain in hushed tones how Maria had sent for him earlier, how, during the course of their meeting, she had had to take a call, during which time he'd seen the book and slipped it into the stack he'd walked into Giles' room with. "She never noticed," Silas finished gleefully. "And when I had the opportunity to look it over, I went directly to Paul to tell him what I'd found."

The Watcher in question was nodding vehemently. "I told Silas to wait until we knew she was retired before speaking with you," he said. "This corroborates the other translations."

It did indeed. In fact, it outlined the ritual quite clearly, explaining how it needed to be conducted before the eve of the fourth, whatever that meant, that the Seers were responsible for protecting the child from the intervention of the Warriors, and that if started, the only way to stop the transfer was to kill the spellcaster.

"This would suggest she has been mostly upfront with us," Giles mused.

"I believe the only reason she hasn't told us about the specifics of the ritual," Silas said eagerly, "is that she fears we would then kill her daughter. She's merely interested in protecting Holly's life. She doesn't want to see her die."

"Which she knows we would do if it meant preserving the Slayer line," Paul added.

"Yes."

It made sense. In a twisted, manipulative way, it made perfect sense.

That didn't mean Giles liked it, though.

"Thank you," he said, meeting Silas' gaze with more warmth toward the man than he'd felt since first meeting him. "This was valuable information for us to get. I appreciate the lengths you've gone to."

"It was my pleasure." His broad smile slightly faded. "I understand we've had a bit of a…tenuous working relationship, Rupert, but I hope you can see now that I truly believe we're on the same side. We must be united in our search for Holly. It's the only way for us to save your Slayer."

"Agreed." Standing, Giles offered his hand in truce. "I owe you my apologies, Geen."

Silas seemed to still be glowing from the affirmation when he and Paul left the room, but Giles' mood didn't lift with their departure.

He wanted to believe that anyone who would arbitrarily threaten an innocent woman like Joyce Summers only had their own best interests at heart, and that those interests were likely detrimental to the masses. He didn't want to be wrong about this.

The books told him he was.

To be continued in Chapter 33: I Ain't Been Nuttin' But Bad…


	33. I Ain't Been Nuttin' But Bad

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Maria has recruited Silas for some secret task, Joyce is determined to go to Maria's though the ghosts are attempting to stop her, and Spike has learned more about the truth of Holly's background…

-----

Prior to going up to the loft, he'd been savoring the idea of a long, hot shower. Dusting the mom vamp after she'd taken a swipe at his forehead with his own knife---and that was one part of the story Buffy was _never_ going to hear---had left Spike hungry for the pounding rhythm of red-hot water against his skin, the sensations of it scalding him into submission and driving away the worst of the energy that now raced throughout his veins. He'd give himself a good wank, too; he was hard as a rock and the release would do him good.

That had been before he'd seen his Slayer awake in his bed, her eyes flickering with emotion he couldn't recognize but most importantly, _open_ and alert.

Now, he just wanted to get under the spray, get himself cleaned as quickly as possible, and get back to the supple flesh stretched out between his sheets. Hungers had a way of transferring when given fresh opportunity, and god, Buffy was as fresh as they came.

He was still going to jerk off, though. Just to take the edge off.

Leaving the bathroom in complete disarray when he was done, Spike bounded up the ladder, pulling himself over the top rung to see Buffy still awake, Holly sitting on the end of the bed with her legs hidden beneath her nightgown. "Time for little ones to be goin' to bed," he announced loudly.

"Fix her clothes first," Buffy requested.

"Right." With little fuss, Spike scooped the child up and set her on the floor, whipping her nightclothes over her head in a single, liquid motion before inverting it and sliding it back on.

"Arms."

He had to refrain from rolling his eyes, but quickly did as Buffy asked, curling Holly into his arms and heading for the ladder when he was done. "Be right back."

"Don't I have to tell Buffy?" Holly whispered in his ear.

"Tell me what?"

This time, he did roll his eyes. "Nothin'," Spike said. To the child, he whispered back, "You're killin' the mood here, pidge."

"But you said---."

"Forget what I said."

"What happened, Spike?"

Even if she wasn't up to par, there was no mistaking the commanding tone of Buffy's voice. With a put-upon sigh, Spike turned around and shook his head. "It's really nothin'," he said. "Just a little accident with the tree."

"I knocked it over," Holly volunteered. "When Spike was making you all steamy."

"In the bath," he hastened to add. "Steam in the _bath_. Was just tryin' a bit of spa therapy to try and help you out."

Buffy's lips quirked. "Well, that explains why I'm naked and wet."

The image her words elicited in his head made Spike harden even more inside his jeans, and he bit down on his tongue to keep from dropping the kid right there. "Can I take her down now?" he asked. "These are details I can give you in our…chat, remember?"

He grinned when he saw the Slayer swallow, her heart returning to its pace post-poisoning. This wasn't an effect of any kind of toxin, though. He was damn well certain this was all him.

She gave him no arguments, and before Holly could open her mouth again, Spike slithered down the ladder, toting the child into the bedroom with curt speed. "Not a peep," he said and dropped her onto the mattress. "Me and Buffy have some talkin' to do, and I don't fancy any interruptions, is that understood?"

Holly clambered to the head of the bed and slid beneath the blankets. "You got rid of the bad guys?" she asked as he walked back to the doorway.

"Yeah. All dust."

"And Buffy's going to be better?"

He stopped at that, glancing back to see the expectation in her wide-open face. "Yeah," he replied, his voice softer. "She's a strong one. Doyle wouldn't have trusted you with her if she wasn't. Now, good night, moptop."

"Good night, Spike."

He was halfway out the door when her voice floated up to him again.

"Merry Christmas."

-----

She was fighting sleep. Her hands still felt leaden, and her shoulders were weary from what little exertion she'd made in speaking with Holly, but Buffy was determined to stay awake. She knew Spike's very not-so-subtle references to chats meant he wanted sex, but she wanted something else. She wanted answers.

His head appeared over the top rung much slower than it had disappeared, and she felt the familiar pull in the pit of her stomach as Spike's darkened eyes fixed on her through his lashes. "Threatened the little one with dismemberment if she interrupts us," he drawled. "'Course, it'll have to be you who does the slicing. My disciplining her would be a spot easier if she wasn't soddin' human."

He didn't stop as he spoke, reaching the end of the bed and dropping his knuckles to the mattress to continue his journey toward her. "Know what a sight you are, luv?" he growled. The bed bowed beneath his weight, his body all sinew and feline grace as he crawled up her length. "Think seein' you all perky again is the best bloody Christmas gift I could've asked for."

His head dropped at the last, his mouth suckling at the exposed upper curve of her breast. Buffy gasped at the unexpected force of his mouth, her nipples hardening to rasp against her bra. "Awake doesn't mean perky, Spike," she managed to get out.

"Perky enough for me." His hand came up to join his mouth, palming the soft swell before pushing the scrap of lace out of his way. "Don't do that again," he murmured into her skin, rolling her nipple between his thumb and index finger.

"Do what?"

Spike's denim-clad thigh rubbed roughly against Buffy's inner thigh, pressing into the growing wetness between her legs. "Scare me into thinkin' you're checkin' out," he said. His teeth nipped along her collarbone, and though she had squeezed her eyes shut at the overwhelming sensations that he was creating in her flesh, Buffy opened them again to stare up at him.

"You told Holly you knew I was going to be OK," she said.

The faintest of questions in her voice prompted Spike to lift his head. "Yeah, well, I lied," he replied. "Evil, remember?"

"Was it that bad?" She'd seen the faint discoloration in her hands. What other symptoms had she exhibited that could freak Spike out so badly?

"Could've been worse," he admitted. Settling himself on his side, he coiled his body around hers while he reached for one of her hands. "Got you cleaned up as fast as I could, but pidge said the others all died from it. Wasn't sure how much was necessary to get into your system before it was too late to pull you back."

"Others?" Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. "Other _Slayers_?"

"Near as I can figure, they were just baby Slayers, waitin' to get all chosen-like." Briefly, he told her about his conversation with Holly, complete with his own extrapolations of some of her more cryptic statements. "Explains why that Maria bird is gunning for the little one," he finished. "Hell, if I'd known there was something out there as simple as a kid's blood that would take down Slayers…" He didn't finish the thought, his eyes catching the hardening of Buffy's mouth, and Spike laced his fingers through hers to tug her closer to him.

"Just glad you're stronger than those others," he said softly. He ducked his head to brush his lips over hers, pressing the leg he'd thrown over her into her pelvis. Chuckling at the moan she couldn't contain, Spike deepened the kiss, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth and nibbling at it between his teeth.

She didn't even have the strength left to push him away, though really, the more he kissed her like that, the less she wanted him to go anywhere. Instead, Buffy pulled back further into her pillow, breaking the seal of their mouths and forcing him to look at her again.

"I might be strong enough to fight the poison," she said, "but that's all on the inside. I can't---."

"You don't have to," Spike cut in. "I've got enough punch right now for the both of us."

"But that won't be any fun for you if I can't…you know…"

He chuckled. "First of all, you and me need to have a bit of discussion about this inability of yours to say the actual words, pet. It might work around the little one, but between you and me, there's no need for you to go all delicate. Big Bad Spike can take a few naughty words, and I've got a feelin', you just might like hearing them as well." He put his hand over her mouth when it opened to protest. "And second, if you think for a minute that I don't get off on you goin' all a-quiver because of what me, my hands, and my tongue are doin' to you, then you haven't sussed me out as well as you think you have, understand?"

She could only nod. Her skin was tingling at the hidden promise in his words, even in the deadened area of her hands, and her throat was dry from the anticipation of what might be coming.

"In fact," he continued, "this might be a good time to get some educating out of the way. Seems to me, talkin' isn't takin' too much of your strength. Am I right?"

Another nod of her head.

"And so long as you don't scream, the little one shouldn't be all the wiser to what's what up here, which satisfies that agreement you're so determined to stick to." Moving his hand away, Spike rolled away and off the bed, hopping to his feet. "I fancy this'll be just as good as what I had in mind," he said, grabbing the hem of his tee and pulling it over his head.

"What?" She couldn't help but ask. The fact that not only hadn't her protestations put him off the sex he seemed determined to have, but had fuelled him even further was both curious and mildly alarming.

OK. And arousing. How could he know that?

"Gettin' you to narrate what I'm about to do," Spike explained. His hands paused at the buttons of his jeans, his eyes glittering in the orange glow cast by the fire from below. "Let's start with an anatomy lesson, shall we?"

Buffy's eyes widened as he slowly began to undo his jeans, the length of his arousal poking free of the denim long before he'd reached the last button. "I…I can't…" she sputtered, and then swallowed hard when he stepped out of them, kicking the jeans behind him and out of his way so that his erection sprang free.

"Yes, you can," Spike said. "I don't think there's anything you can't do, pet. You just have to set your mind to it. And this…" He was back on the bed, kneeling beside her so that his erection beckoned just inches away from her face. "…is just the beginning."

There was enough residual power in her arm for her to pull away when he took her hand, but Buffy was too transfixed with the desire to touch Spike to stop him from curling her fingers around his hardness. He didn't let go, just molded his fingers around hers to guide her movements, all the while locking her in his gaze.

"You see what you do to me?" he rumbled as her palm brushed against the wetness collecting on the tip. "All I have to do is think about you for a second, and I'm hard. Hell, I smell your bloody shampoo in the air, and it's enough for me to start wanting to bury myself between your thighs. You're in my blood, Buffy. Nothin' I do seems to shake you outta me, and now…" He lifted her hand away from his arousal, up to his mouth, and pressed his lips to her open palm.

He never finished the thought. With her hand trapped in his, one simple kiss to her palm turned into an intimate caress of her fingers, and Buffy squirmed as each swipe across her skin sent an electrical bolt straight to her soaking pussy. "That's…that's not…what I thought…you wanted to be talking about," she panted.

"Oh?" Spike asked, but he didn't abandon her fingers, instead sucking them, one by one, into the warm recesses of his mouth.

"You made it sound like…like…you wanted me to use…you know, dirty talk."

His reply was a bite into the fleshy part of her palm. "Dirty talk's a part of it, pet. But what's most important is that you're not afraid to voice what you want. How you feel." He trailed a path down to her wrist, along the underside of her arm, nibbling at the tender skin of her inner elbow. "Lesson the first. Tell me what you're feelin'."

Each nerve in her skin was throbbing in response to his oral attention, the dulling that had taken control of her hands abating with every bite, every lick, every suck. She didn't think it was possible for her to answer his question with much coherence, and so said the first thing that came to her head.

"Wet."

She felt him smile against her skin.

"Maybe graduating to the dirty talk won't be so difficult after all," Spike drawled. Leaning across her body, he braced his weight on his fist as he uncoiled his body along her length again. "Always knew there was a naughty girl inside that uptight exterior."

Buffy pretended to pout. "I'm not uptight."

"Not any more. I'm takin' full credit for that little transformation, thank you very much."

"It's not all about you, Spike."

"Oh? So your ever-so-eloquent 'you know' is just to charm me out of my pants?" He rolled his hips against hers, grinding against her. "Got a news bulletin for you, luv. Those pants are long gone."

She moaned when he captured her mouth with his again, sucking down her breath as his tongue demanded entrance. How she wished she had the energy to grab on to the wiry muscles of his back, to lift her legs and wrap them around his pelvis and feel his steel length sink deep into her soaking cleft. Instead, she had to settle for the deliberate stroking of his hands as they molded over her curves, the brutal hunger of his kiss as he took what he'd wanted since first spying her awake. It left her panting and willing to do just about anything he asked if he would only continue.

"So…" he whispered when he broke away. His forehead rested against hers, as if his head was too heavy for him to lift, and Buffy found herself dizzy from the absence of his mouth. "…in regards to this _wet_ feeling you're testifying to…"

She gasped when his hand slipped between their torsos and tore the outer seams of her underwear, leaving her open and exposed and waiting for him to touch. Any second now, she would feel his fingers delve between her folds, stroking with that expert touch until she was desperate to feel him inside her, and then he would delve inside, and start the want all over again, building and building until her explosive release was inevitable. He had taken her to that brink before, pushed her over with merciless passion. She merely had to wait for him to take her in hand and start the ineludible climb.

It never came.

Buffy's eyes shot open to see Spike watching her intently through his lashes, his nostrils flaring from the exacting control he was maintaining over his body. "You stopped," she said breathlessly. "Why did you stop?"

"Lesson the second. Tell me what you want."

If she'd had the strength, she would've thrown him off and straddled his lean hips, taking him in deep with full force and ridden him until he was screaming for his own release. But she didn't, and if she was going to find any cessation of the fire he'd started burning inside her flesh, Buffy knew what she had to do.

"I want…" She swallowed. What exactly did she want?

His cheek brushed against hers as he nuzzled at her neck. "You can do it, luv," Spike murmured. "Just tell me. Nothin' you can do or say's goin' to make a whit of difference 'bout how I feel about you. There's nothin' for you to be afraid of."

"Touch me."

"Where? Here?" His hand left where it had been hovering at her hip to whisper along the curve of her waist.

Buffy giggled from the unexpected tickling. "No."

"Then…here?"

Fingertips followed the line of her lower ribs, stopping at her sternum to stroke her stomach in maddening precision.

"No."

The touching stopped, and Spike's eyes returned to her field of vision, dancing with amusement. "Need to be a tad more specific then, pet," he said. "I could play hit or miss all night."

Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment. He was actually going to make her say the words. Not that she didn't _think_ the words but verbalizing them was an entirely different matter. "Touch my…my…pussy," Buffy finally whispered, and ducked her gaze away from his. "Please…"

"Well, since you asked so nicely…" And then his hand was back on her hip, sliding across her pelvis to brush away the last scrap of her underwear, his fingers slipping into her wetness with the familiarity he'd gained over the past few days. "Is this what you wanted?"

Eyes fluttering shut, Buffy sank into the sensations his touch was eliciting, a maelstrom of color and light that left her body pounding and throbbing for more. "Yes," she hissed, and moaned when his mouth returned to her breast, this time sucking her nipple hard against the roof before catching the tip between his teeth. "Harder," she whispered, gasping when he obeyed. And then… "Fuck me, Spike. Please…I want…just fuck me."

Though his hand never stopped, she felt his head and shoulders pull away, and opened her eyelids to see him gazing down at her in concern. "I wasn't goin' to go that far," Spike said. "You're still recovering. I was just…you don't have to do that for me."

Buffy shook her head. "I'm asking for me. This is what I want. That's what your little lesson was all about, right? And I don't have a problem with you taking control." She smiled, memories of the previous night in front of the fireplace flooding her head. "I don't _always_ have to be on top, you know."

The slow cant of his smile mirrored hers, and the worry that had hardened his features dissipated. "Guess I can do that then," he said. Grabbing her wrist, he lifted her arm to help her wrap it around his shoulder, drawing him in closer to her torso, the hardened tips of her nipples tickling across his bare chest. "Think makin' love to you is turning into my favorite pastime."

Briefly, her mind registered the shift in terminology, but the implications were lost when Spike's fingers disappeared, to be replaced by the probing tip of his erection. With the unhurried hunger of a man for whom time didn't matter, Spike pressed forward, stretching her with every inch he sank. The hand she could barely command felt the muscles in his back flex as he fought with such desperation to take it slowly, and she voiced the question before she could think not to.

"How?" Buffy whispered.

It didn't break his rhythm, as excruciatingly slow as it was, but he did break away from where he'd been suckling at her neck to gaze down at her. "How what?" he asked.

"You were so wired. I saw you. But now, and this…" She gasped when his pubic bone ground into her, holding there for the longest moment before he began to slide out again. "You're holding back," she went on, "and I don't get…how you can."

"Easy. Can't hurt you."

"Pounding isn't hurting."

"Is that what you want?"

"What?"

"For me to pound into you. For you to feel bruised and exhausted from feeling me plough into that sweet little quim of yours. Is that what you want?"

She had thought so. When he'd begun touching her, and the desire had swelled to proportions Buffy was beginning to recognize as her typical Spike want threshold, she'd thought all she wanted was to forget about recuperating and lose herself in the frenzy of fucking him.

But now, with each delectable glide just as savory as the last, that feeling of being full and stretching to accommodate him and knowing that he was trembling with every bit of the same too muchness that she was…Buffy thought differently.

"This is what I want," she said. "I just…I love the way you feel. How…full you make me feel. Like…like…this is the way it's meant to be."

He kissed her at that, his mouth honeyed and warm, and she clung to him with all the strength she could muster. "Could keep this up all night," Spike murmured when their lips parted. "Take it nice and slow, and make it last." His head tilted, his eyes black and solemn as he seemed to weigh his next words. "The way it's meant to be."

A jolt of…_something_…shot through Buffy's chest. "I changed my mind," she said, and brushed her mouth across his. "_That's_ what I want."

To be continued in Chapter 34: Rocking Around the Christmas Tree…


	34. Rocking Around the Christmas Tree

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Silas has gone to Giles and Paul with evidence of why Maria has been holding back on them, Joyce seems to think she has an alternative to helping out Buffy, and Buffy is beginning to recuperate after coming into contact with Holly's blood…

-----

When she woke, it was with the full consciousness that came from getting just the right amount of sleep, her eyes opening of their own accord, her mind already fully alert and prepared to face the day. Buffy's body, however, was of a different inclination, and she groaned out loud as her muscles screamed in protest against her efforts to sit up.

Before she could get herself upright, a bleached head appeared at the top rung, his bright gaze sweeping over her in quick assessment before hopping up the rest of the way. "Lucky you've got a good excuse for bein' a lazybones this morning," Spike said. "And even luckier I'm in a good enough mood not to give you hell for it. Must've been that amazing shag I had last night."

The bed slanted when he perched on the edge, and Buffy tumbled against him, his arms lifting her effortlessly into his lap before she could stop him. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Not sure on the specifics," he said, but his gaze wasn't on her face when he answered. Instead, Spike was fixated by the sight of her bare breasts, the hand he didn't have keeping her in place on his legs rising to stroke the dusky pink of her nipple. "After lunch is the best I can tell you."

She automatically stiffened, her eyes widening as Buffy struggled to get to her feet. "And you let me sleep all day?"

The steel curl of his arm around her back kept her rooted as he finally looked into her face. "I let you get the rest you need," Spike corrected. "We were up 'til the crack of dawn, if you care to remember, and the last thing you said to me before drifting off was that now your legs didn't work, either. Thought I was doin' you a favor."

It was impossible not to hear the hurt behind the sharp tone of his voice, and Buffy forced herself to relax back into his grip. He had been true to his word, making love to her well into the night, bringing her to orgasm over and over and over again while he only came two or three times himself. When she'd succumbed to his repeated demands to guide him in what she wanted, whispered like velvet steel into her ear as he held her trembling body firmly against his chest, she'd responded with a torrent of words that shocked her but made Spike smile.

And comply.

Oh, boy, had he complied.

"How's Holly doing?" she asked, changing the subject. "No more fatal tree accidents today?"

"Been good as gold." His attention was back at her breast, tracing around the hardened aureola with a single finger.

"How did you punish her for what happened?"

"Didn't."

"What? Why not?"

"'Cause as soon as I punish her, she's goin' to think everything's fine and dandy and probably get into mischief again. This way, she stays on her best behavior on the hopes she doesn't get whatever penance she ought. So, are your tits always this sensitive, or do you just want me that much?"

She gasped at his question, both for as much as he'd actually said out loud and for the nonchalant curiosity in his voice. "Ego, much?" Buffy said, slapping his hand away. She didn't have a lot, but what motor control she did command was more than enough to protect what little sense of modesty she had left. It wasn't much. It was hard to be too modest around Spike after having begged him to bite her clit just a few hours earlier.

He ignored her protestations, and settled her back onto the mattress so that he could stand up. "You up to joining us downstairs?" he asked, crossing to the dresser. "Thought you could be my extra set of eyes while I fix the tree back up. Make sure it's not crooked or anything."

"We're keeping it?"

"Yeah, why not?" Pulling out one of his tees, he tossed it to her, leaning against the bureau as he watched her slip it over her head.

"Maybe because Christmas is over?"

"Technically, it's Boxing Day. So, the holiday's not over just yet, luv."

"You never did tell me what Boxing Day actually is."

"And you never told me how you got that little scar on the inside of your thigh, so I guess that makes us even, huh?"

There was no mistaking his gleeful smirk, a testament to the uncharacteristic good mood that he'd been in ever since dusting the vamps the previous night. Some of it she understood; the sex had been amazing and not even Spike could escape the effects of the afterglow. What confused Buffy was this residual humor around her, the contrast of friendly gibes with an unceasing awareness of her wellbeing. Plus, it was more than obvious he was getting attached to Holly, in spite of his assertions to the contrary. Add it all up, and Buffy was left wishing she hadn't skipped as many math classes in high school as she had.

"I need pants if I'm going down," she finally said.

Spike shook his head. "Only need pants if you actually get off the couch," he countered. "Which you're not."

Before she could react, he was back at her side, scooping her into his arms with the blanket wrapped around her body. He only went a few steps, though, before he was stopped, the comforter's edge still tucked beneath the mattress, and he gave it a quick yank to free it from its moorings.

He pulled too hard, and Buffy frowned as a soft thud hit the floor at the same time the blanket came loose. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the small leather-bound book that now rested amid the dust motes beneath his bed.

For a second, she felt him stiffen, but by the time she'd shifted to look at Spike, his face was unreadable, his shoulders shrugging.

"Just a bit of bedtime reading," he said and carried her away from it, leaving it lying there abandoned without any further thought. "Nothin' important."

She immediately forgot about the book when he jumped, the sudden drop to the floor below making her stomach surge in revolt, and Buffy scrabbled to tighten her hold on Spike's shoulders as the vertigo made the room swim around her. "I think I need to eat something," she said as he headed for the couch.

His mouth quirked. "Should've said something 'bout that before we came down then," he joked.

He settled her in the corner of the sofa, tucking the blanket around her before heading for the kitchen. On the floor beside the crooked tree, Holly sat with Baby, rocking her in the cradle Spike had made, but her eyes were locked on Buffy as she sang nonsense under her breath.

"How's your leg feel?" Buffy asked.

"OK."

A scrap of material hanging over the side of the cradle caught her eye, and she followed the trail to where it disappeared under the towel Holly was using for a blanket. "What's that?" she quizzed, pointing to the fabric.

Picking up the doll, Holly lifted its dress to reveal the scrap tied around its leg. "Baby has a boo boo."

"Say that five times fast," she heard Spike mutter behind her.

"Can I see?" Buffy held out her hand, but the child hesitated, her eyes falling.

"It's all right, pidge. I got you all bundled up tight when I changed your plasters, so there's no need for you to be worried 'bout leaking over the Slayer, OK?"

Spike's assurance was enough to make Holly nod in understanding, and she carefully edged close enough to Buffy to hand over the doll. "She's sleeping," she offered, and withdrew her hand before their fingers could make contact.

"What happened to her?"

"She fell out of bed."

"I've done that. That hurts." And then… "You know I'm going to be fine, right? I know you were scared, but I don't want you to be when it's not necessary. I'll bet I'm back on my feet before you go to sleep tonight."

Holly's eyes were solemn as she took back her doll, tucking it into the cradle as she seemed to contemplate Buffy's words. "I don't want you to die," she said. She picked up the ball from her nearby skittles set and began rolling it between her palms, doing everything she could to stay apart from the conversation the Slayer was determined to have.

"And I'm not going to," Buffy reassured her. "But even if something happens to me, like I get hurt again, Spike will---."

"No!" With a vicious throw of the toy, Holly sent a surge of ornaments crashing to the floor, startling both adults. "Nobody dies! No more! No more!"

Her tiny fists were pounding against the decorations that tumbled beneath the tree, her body writhing in the throes of her tantrum. In a flash, Spike was there, picking her up and trying to pin her still as she kicked and thrashed against him.

"Bloody hell!" he shouted when her ankle connected with his groin. Instinctively, he threw her at the couch, shouting out in pain again when his chip fired. "Knew I should've tied you to the bloody bed!"

Before she could scramble away, Holly was wrapped in Buffy's arms, her hysterical crying straining what little strength the Slayer had managed to regain. She fought to hold the child, though, rocking her into her body with as much reassuring calm as she'd witnessed Joyce exhibit over the years, all the while murmuring anything that she thought might help.

Her eyes met Spike's over the top of Holly's head. _Please_, she thought, and prayed that, this time, he'd pull one of those mind-reading tricks he excelled at and listen to her. _This is so not me. Help me do this. I need you. Please._

Slowly, the tension dissipated from his body, his mouth softening as he regarded the two females on the couch. Without saying a word, he sat down on the couch and reached out to awkwardly pat the child's back.

"Didn't mean to yell, pidge," he soothed, though there was still a slight rasp to his voice. "But we told you, Buffy's goin' to be just fine. You gotta trust us."

"That's…that's…what they…all say," Holly said between choking sobs.

"They?" Buffy kept her voice as low as possible, in order not to add to the alarm. "Who's they?"

When no answer came, Spike tried, "Are these the blokes who were watching you before? Is that who you're talking about?"

Still no response. Only the wracking tears.

"It doesn't matter what happened to you before," Buffy said. "What matters is that you've got me and Spike on your side now, and you know what? We _hate_ to lose. In fact, Spike hates to lose so much, he has a tendency to cheat to make sure he wins---."

"Hey!"

"---so there's no reason to think that anything bad is going to happen, OK? Not with us to look after you."

The sobs were starting to subside, and Holly wiped her face on the edge of Buffy's blanket before looking up at her. "I don't want to hurt anybody any more," she whispered.

"You're not going to," Buffy promised, though in the back of her mind, she wondered how she could make a vow like that.

"C'mon, moptop," Spike said. Gently peeling her away, he stood with her in his arms. "Think it might be best if you have a bit of kip."

"I'm not sleepy," she argued, and then her jaws stretched into an impossibly wide yawn.

"Wanna try that one again?" He shifted her in his grip. "Let's go."

"Baby, Baby," she cried out, struggling to reach for the doll on the floor when he started to walk away.

Spike sighed. "And Baby, too," he said and plucked it from the cradle.

Falling exhaustedly back into the corner, Buffy watched as he carried Holly into the bedroom, the child resting her cheek on his shoulder and already half asleep before he reached the door. He'd told her about the details of the girl's past, but seeing the distraught reaction firsthand, combining it with the stories Holly had shared during their playdate outside, painted a picture so bleak that Buffy's heart was breaking. Maybe it was because she was still weakened from recovery, but the desire to find whoever could possibly want to hurt Holly and kick their respective asses into another dimension swelled inside her.

Too bad she'd been out of it during Spike's fight the previous night. She was going far too long without a good slay.

-----

The little one was out cold before he could lay her down, and Spike hurriedly covered her up so that he could get back to Buffy. He probably should've put the chit down for a nap earlier, but Buffy had surprised him by waking up sooner than he'd expected.

Pulling the door closed behind him, Spike softened at the sight that greeted him from the couch. She'd curled into the corner, golden hair splaying over the armrest, her lashes dark against her cheeks as she rested from Holly's outburst. Her color was undoubtedly better; he'd noticed, too, that the bluing was gone from her hands, though she still lacked the bulk of her strength. A few more hours of rest and Buffy would likely be back to her usual self, all verve and vinegar and ready to take the piss out of him again.

Just the way he liked her.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, sauntering forward to perch himself on the opposite end of the couch. His good humor had lessened with the inadvertent attack on his person, but just looking at Buffy was enough to start restoring it again.

Her eyes flitted open. "What're you apologizing for?" she said. "I'm the one who set her off."

"Little one's knackered. That's why she's on a hair trigger. Doesn't have anything to do with you."

"Still…" Her gaze was contemplative, though her mind seemed to no longer be with him. "Do you think Holly's mom could've been a potential Slayer? You said it sounded like she was living with a bunch of them. Like a training camp of some sort, right?"

It was a possibility he hadn't considered. "Pidge did say her mum died because of her job. Would make sense if she was slaying."

"And then the Council just kept a close eye on her after her mom was killed. Because she was a threat to them." She chewed at her lip, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. "She said…she told me you two talked a lot. About moms and stuff."

Spike stiffened. "Yeah," he said slowly. This wasn't a topic he wanted to discuss with Buffy. She'd never respect him if she found out what a poof he'd been as a human, and losing what ground he'd gained over the past few days wasn't acceptable. "I was just tryin' to get the little one to open up. Try to find out why someone would be after her."

"She said your mom was dead."

"Well, considering it's been a century since I was turned, I'd be surprised if she wasn't, pet."

He knew where this was going. As he watched the internal debate rage behind Buffy's eyes, Spike fervently wished that she'd just drop it. It couldn't end in anything good and the last thing he wanted was to wreck the gossamer tapestry that was being woven between them.

"Will a sandwich do?" he asked, launching from his seat to head for the kitchen. That was it. Change the subject. Distract her from what he really didn't want her to---.

"Did you kill her?"

---ask.

Fuck.

He kept his back to her, busying himself with the bread and lunchmeat. "Does it matter?" he said. His throat was tight. "It was a long time ago."

"That means yes, doesn't it?"

Of course it meant bloody yes. But there wasn't a fucking chance in hell she'd understand. So he did the only thing he could. He kept his mouth shut.

"Spike---."

"You want butter on this?"

"On a sandwich? Ew, no. Spike---."

"How about a bit of fruit, then? Pidge won't touch the oranges, so---."

"You're avoiding the subject."

He shot her a quick look and put as much venom into his voice as he could. "Took you this long to suss that out, luv? Good thing you've got the looks to make a spot of sense redundant then."

The silence that ensued sliced as cleanly into Spike as his knife did through the bread. Any second now, he expected Buffy to revert to form and lash out at him, using words as her weapon of choice since her fists were temporarily out of commission. It was only fair. He'd done just that thing in order to get her to shut up.

The wavery sound of her exhalation was a soft sigh in the too-close air. Just bloody get it over with, he thought, suddenly weary. Knew all this was too good to be true, anyway.

"Holly told me what you said to her." Her voice was low, her pitch even. "That your mom was sick."

Bugger.

He was going to strangle the brat as soon as she woke up from her soddin' nap. Obviously, that was the only way to keep the kid from talking so much.

"Were you telling her the truth?" Buffy asked. "Or was it just to try and gain sympathy points so that she'd open up?"

He knew he should lie. He knew he should just claim to be nefarious in word and deed and let the consequences be damned.

But when he turned back to face Buffy, when he saw the soft compassion in the solemnity of her eyes, Spike's resolve crumbled.

Against the backdrop of the skewed Christmas tree, with the sunlight filtering through the curtains and merging with the warm glow of the fireplace, she didn't look like the Slayer waiting for an excuse to stake him. She looked like the woman who rolled over when she thought he was asleep in order to hold him tighter. Tentative to trust what was right before her eyes, but bold enough to try.

A woman who cared. For him. Who'd known the truth all along and hadn't let it stop her from taking the risk of going for more.

How could he lie to her now?

"I thought I could make it better." He didn't meet her eyes, not even when he handed Buffy the plate. "I just didn't want her to hurt any more."

Spike was relieved when she didn't try to detain him, retreating back to the kitchen with the feel of her gaze heavy on his back. He had rinsed off the knife and put the food away before she spoke up again.

"Are you still going to fix the tree?" Buffy asked. The look of incredulity on his face must've been plain when he glanced back at her because she added, "You said you were going to do it. And I'm all ready to be the official Christmas tree inspector whenever you're ready to go to work."

She was just going to drop it. Ammunition to use against him, to call him evil and remind him that he was still a demon, and Buffy was just tossing it aside with the carefree abandon of someone who didn't care.

Or rather, with the abandon of someone who _did_.

A slow smile creased Spike's face.

"It'll be a tad bare," he said, wiping his hands on his jeans as he crossed to the fir in question. "Pidge broke more than a few ornaments with that last tantrum of hers."

"It can be our Charlie Brown Christmas tree then," she replied. "Those are better anyway."

Impulsively, Spike pivoted on his heel and bent to his knee in front of Buffy, cupping his hands around her face to pull her into a hard, swift kiss.

Her eyes were glittering when he broke away, her swollen mouth curving into a small smile. "What was that for?" she breathed.

"Just realized I hadn't kissed this bloody amazing woman since she woke up in my bed," he said, straightening. "Just doin' my best to right a wrong, but don't you dare tell anyone I said that."

Behind him, Buffy giggled. "You're weird, Spike," she said, but there was an affection in her tone that left his chest warm.

Bloody amazing was an understatement.

If he wasn't careful, he could very well do more than care about her.

And maybe…

Maybe he didn't _want_ to be careful around Buffy.

Not any more.

To be continued in Chapter 35: A World Outside Your Window…


	35. A World Outside Your Window

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Holly had a tantrum in her fear about hurting Buffy more, but got settled down. Buffy and Spike had a small talk about some of the things he'd said to Holly about his mother, ending in a new understanding between the two…

-----

There were striking similarities to the last time she'd woken on the couch with Spike.

The hard, lean length of him against her back, arousing Buffy's nerves to a bow-tight zenith long before her mind could fully sharpen.

His cool hand splayed possessively across her stomach. Still. Firm. Ready to act at the slightest provocation.

His nose buried in the golden tangle of two-days-spent-in-bed hair. Even if he wasn't breathing, Buffy was convinced he did it only to soak in the scent of her. Spike seemed to be just as smell-fixated as he was orally.

But there were differences, too.

When the shadows had lengthened and Holly had made no appearance at waking from her nap, Spike had climbed onto the couch without invitation, his eyes solemn when they met Buffy's as he rolled her over, molding her to him with the silent command of a man convinced it was his right. She would've asked him anyway, but the assurance with which he claimed his place beside her was both terrifying and heart-warming.

He made no overt sexual advances, either. Yes, she could feel his erection through his jeans where his hips pressed into her bottom, and yes, he'd allowed no hesitancy before slipping his hand beneath the t-shirt she wore, but that was where Spike stopped. His fingers never strayed above her navel, and the closest his mouth came to hers was when he'd nuzzled at the tender spot below her ear. There was still affection in every brush of his skin; it was just tempered by the understanding that now was not the time for more.

Achy from inactivity, Buffy stretched as best she could within the circle of his embrace in order not to wake him. The slight arching of her back drove his arousal deeper into the cleft of her ass, eliciting a sleepy growl from her bed-partner along with a tightening of his grip.

"Dirty pool," Spike grumbled. "S'posed to be resting, not doin' your best Delilah."

"I've been in bed too long. I'm all stiff."

"Believe that's my line, luv."

"What time is it?"

"Middle of the night. You still tired or are you wanting to get up?"

Buffy's eyes drifted open. The cabin glowed from the dying embers in the fireplace, the air crisp with the promise of midnight. "I get up now," she said, "and my body clock won't ever forgive me."

"Could move upstairs," Spike murmured. For the first time, the hand he held to her stomach crept lower, probing fingers teasing and entwining with the first wiry curls they found. "You could let me tire you out good and proper."

The prospect was appealing. She wasn't all that ready to return to sleep, and she wasn't sure a devoted Spike wouldn't disappear once she was back in top form. It might be her best move to take advantage of this while she could.

Slapping playfully at his encroaching hand, Buffy said, "It's cold down here anyway. I want it on the record that I'm only agreeing to this because your bed is way cozier than this couch."

She felt him peel reluctantly away from her. "I'll just give the fire a good stoke before we go up then," he said. "Won't be---."

The sudden freeze of his muscles prompted a corresponding tension in her, and Buffy twisted to see what had stopped him.

"What is it?" she started to ask, but the words died in her throat when she saw.

The front door of the cabin stood open to the elements.

As did the bedroom door.

It explained the cold. Without Spike's body as a shield, Buffy felt the frigid air of the outside dampening the warmer air in. She felt it even more acutely when he shot off the sofa, the blanket tumbling to the floor as he bolted to the bedroom.

"Fuck!"

He didn't linger. In a flash, Spike was at the front door, fangs and ridges in full display as he stretched his every sense out into the darkness. For a long moment, his body was utterly still and Buffy's pulse quickened as each second passed.

Fuelled by adrenaline, her feet were on the floor the instant he moved. "I'll be right behind you," she said as she hurried to the bedroom. "I just---."

"No." The single word cut through the air, but when she turned to look at him, Spike was too busy pulling on his boots to notice. "Pidge just did another walkabout. I can handle it."

"We can fan out. We don't know how long she's been gone."

"I said, no!" His eyes gleamed in yellow as he finally lifted his head to glare at her. "You've only just been knockin' on death's door. I'm not risking losin' you, too."

She was still motionless when he grabbed his coat and disappeared from the cabin, slamming the door behind him. A mixture of anger and awed disbelief churned in her stomach at his proclamation; too many implications from his words ran amok inside her head. Stubbornness won out in the end, though, and Buffy whirled on her heel to return to the bedroom and her quest for clothes.

-----

The chill whipped over the planes of his face as Spike chased Holly's scent through the trees. The trail was clean, no evidence of other demons on the prowl, but the knowledge that it was merely the child's sleepwalking did nothing to assuage the fury that burned through Spike's veins.

He'd failed. He'd known he was the only one on the watch and still, he'd allowed himself to be lulled into complacency, drifting off into a satisfied slumber with Buffy in his arms where she belonged and little thought that there might be repercussions to his simple action clouding his mind. He hadn't even noticed the lack of a second heartbeat when he'd awakened. All he'd been aware of was the ripe and ambrosial Slayer he surrounded.

And now the little one could be endangered because of it.

The trail wound through the trees, circuitous and abstract in a vague pattern that was all too déjà vu. How many times had he followed after Drusilla when she'd gone wandering? Sometimes he was lucky. He'd find her before she stumbled into more trouble than she could handle, coaxing her back to their current hideaway with promises of sweet girls and sparklies.

Sometimes, he wasn't so lucky. Sometimes, he had to claw and bite to get her out, staying steadfast in her presence in order to keep her calm, only to rage afterward at the haunting specter of her bruised and bleeding loveliness.

This could not be one of those times.

Around Spike, the trees began to thin, and he tracked the scent through a break, only to skid immediately to a halt. The lake Buffy had told him about earlier loomed before him, desolate and crystalline under the starless sky, its surface glittering from the new frost that had freshly hardened its surface.

And there, twenty yards out towards its center, stood Holly.

Because she'd never woken to be changed, she still wore the sweater and pants from earlier, her feet still sporting the shoes he hadn't bothered to remove before settling in to her nap. Thank the bloody hell for small miracles, he thought as he stepped tentatively onto the ice. At least she had _some_ protection from the surrounding winter.

"Jealous of my attention to the Slayer, huh, pidge?" he called out. The slow and steady of her pulse was the only testimony Spike needed to attest to her somnambulism, and he wasn't surprised when she continued to walk haltingly toward the lake's center, ignorant of his words.

"You got me now," Spike continued. The ice was holding, but the further he went out, the thinner he knew it would be. "Let's say you and me go back. Have some hot chocolate to warm up."

No response. Just the delicate crunch of her tread on the ice.

"Holly!"

Roaring her name did the trick. Slowly, the little girl turned her head, and even from that distance, Spike could see the vacancy in her gaze.

"You're skating," she said.

"No, I'm fetching you," he countered.

Ten yards away now. He could hear her shivering.

"I have to go. I have to hide."

"You are hiding. Back with me and Buffy."

"Buffy's dead."

The simple declaration, wrong as he knew it was, made his blood run cold. "No, she's not," Spike said. "She woke up, remember? She woke up, and she's doin' just fine. She wants you to come back with me, pidge. Now, you don't want to let Buffy down, do you?"

Five yards. She wasn't moving, neither farther away nor closer to him. He wasn't sure if that was good or not.

"They all died. I didn't want them to, but they did. Why didn't Buffy die?"

"Because she's a fighter, that's why. Because there's nothin' she can't beat, just like there's nothin' you can't beat if you set your mind to it. Now, c'mon and be a good little girl, and let me get you back to the house before you catch the death of you from cold."

Beneath his boots, the ice trembled with Spike's weight, and he imagined tiny spider webs lacing its frigid belly. He shoved the images away. He had to focus on success.

Three yards.

All he had to do was reach out to her as he took those last few steps---.

His hand jerked back at the electric shock of the magical perimeter, driving his foot unexpectedly hard into the ice so that he could retain his balance from the sudden jolt. The audible creak of the ice groaning against the onslaught made him freeze, and Spike strained to hear for more telltale weaknesses in his precarious perch on the lake.

He only heard the harsh rasp of Holly's cold breath.

He couldn't get to her. Just a few feet away and the bloody barrier penning them in kept him from scooping her up and running back to the cabin. For a second, the confusion of how she could've slipped through the invisible wall when he couldn't made Spike frown, but the answer quickly presented itself.

The child was insusceptible to magic. Doyle had said so himself.

Bloody ridiculous way to try and cage a kid who could walk through the walls they erected.

Tamping down his growing frustration, Spike slowly crouched so that his eyes were level with Holly's. If he couldn't go to her, then he just had to get her to come to him. "Pidge," he said softly, though his demon was screaming inside, "need you to listen to me."

-----

Her body was livid in its silent protestations of the limits Buffy was forcing upon it, muscles kindled in icy heat as they fought to perform as she expected them to. In the back of her mind, she knew Spike had been right in his demand that she stay behind, but it was too late for her to admit that now. She could only press onward, following the path he'd created, and hope that she didn't collapse before she reached him.

Buffy's heart lodged in her throat when she saw the two dark figures on the ice. There was no detail; the inky sky allowed little illumination, and she had to squint to confirm that it was indeed Spike and Holly. Only the stark whiteness of his hair made it possible for her to know for sure, and she froze where she was, her legs grateful for the temporary reprieve, to watch as he reached out to the child.

And then jerk back as if suddenly burned.

It took a moment for Buffy to realize what was stopping Spike. The barrier that kept them contained now separated the vampire from Holly, the magic that created it obviously no obstacle for her. How were they going to get her back? The Slayer's feet were already moving toward the lake's edge, ready to help in whatever way possible, when Spike's voice floated back to her.

"…need you to listen to me," she heard him say.

Buffy hesitated. She couldn't see his face, and she could barely make out his words, but the fragile timbre of Spike's voice begged compliance, compelling her to check her advance.

"Know you're scared," he continued. "And I know you don't rightly understand everything that's goin' on. Can't say that I do, either. But that doesn't mean you need to do a runner every time things get a little rough. How do you expect me and Buffy to help you if you're not around for us to help?"

"Buffy can't help me. I hurt her. I didn't want to."

"She knows that, moptop. And she _can_ help you. You just have to give her a chance. The Slayer's got more surprises in her than she does quips, and I _know_ you've heard her speak."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you here?"

"Told you. I'm fetching. Now let me get to it before the both of us end up goin' for a swim. Don't particularly fancy playin' polar bear with you, 'specially since I'd automatically win."

She could tell Spike was losing his temper. Frankly, Buffy was surprised he'd managed to last this long. She should probably intervene---.

"---couldn't bear it, you know."

Buffy watched as Holly took a tentative step closer to him. OK, so maybe he _didn't_ need her help.

"You're not goin' to remember a spot of this in the mornin' which makes it a mite easier to tell, but you're not so different from Buffy, you know. The pair of you drive me barmy, and half the time I want to throttle the two of you, but bugger if you haven't made me care. If something were to happen to you, pidge, and there was something I could've done to prevent it…"

"Don't cry, Spike."

"I'm not. It's the blasted wind."

_Except the air is still.__ What's going on, Spike?_

Holly inched even further forward, and Buffy felt the tension in her body unwind when Spike scooped her into his arms, the child's tiny fingers wiping at the angles of his cheeks. His next words were lost when he buried his face in Holly's, but the Slayer was backing up already anyway. This wasn't something she was supposed to have witnessed, she realized. And if Spike were to come off the ice to find her, she'd have more than an angry vampire on her hands.

Stumbling back through the trees, Buffy only glanced over her shoulder once to see the pair edging their way back to the shore, Spike's coat wrapped around Holly to protect her from the frigid air. She'd known he was developing a soft spot for the little girl, in spite of his assertions to the contrary, but hearing him bundle Buffy into the same sentiment left her feeling insanely warm inside.

And it was under the weighted branch of a towering pine that the understanding came to her.

She was falling in love with Spike.

It made her halt in her paces, her heart pounding inside her chest. Lust was one thing, even strong like. But _love_? That was more than she'd ever bargained for. Did she want that? It was completely in her power to put a stop to any advancing of feelings, to keep this completely casual with the amazing sex and joking camaraderie their newfound appreciation created between them.

Only…she didn't want to. Not really. She _liked_ where things were going. Wasn't Spike proving, time and time again, that there was more to him than she'd ever imagined? He didn't have to be so nice to Holly; he didn't know he'd had an audience. That meant it was real, and probably something he'd be ashamed to admit to Buffy, so rabid he was about maintaining his Big Bad persona.

She began to walk again, determined to beat him back to the cabin so that he wouldn't be aware that she'd slipped out.

Smiling the entire way.

-----

The hour was late. The Watchers had long retired, their work from the day exhausting them further than they were willing to admit, and Maria was left to go over their findings---or lack thereof---on her own.

Five days. She only had five days left to find the little brat before the magic would cease to work. Five days before a lifetime of searching for power that should've been hers in the first place would be wasted. Did they not understand the gravity of her situation?

Of course not. Because the fools only had part of the story.

At least she had Rupert in check now. Silas had done exactly as she'd requested, ingratiating himself back into the others' good graces with the faux text she'd given him. They were even more confused about Maria's motives than ever, which was good as long as it didn't get in the way of their locating the child. It was a good thing none of them were in more direct contact with their previous employer; if they'd had access to even an iota of the Council's information on Holly, Maria knew they would never have agreed to help her find the girl.

She paced the length of her study with a weary grace. Sleep was probably her best option at the moment, but rest escaped her, her mind too twisted with the details of what was to come to allow her that freedom. Five days could be an eternity or a pindrop, depending on what the men discovered. If they failed to---.

No. She wouldn't dwell on that. Failure was not possible.

Maria was startled from her reverie by the ringing of her private phone. With a frown, she crossed the room to answer it, her gaze flickering to the clock on the mantle on the fireplace as she did so.

"It's late," she said into the receiver.

"I know, miss, but it can't be helped." The cracked voice of the groundskeeper broke through the static on the phone. "There's been a slight disturbance at the front gate."

"A disturbance? Of what sort?"

"I thought it was some wild animals at first, what with all the noise they were making. I'm surprised you couldn't hear it all the way up to the house---."

"Get to the point."

The groundskeeper cleared his throat, and Maria could imagine him rubbing at his rheumy eyes in exhaustion. "I went down to see what it was and found…well, I'm not sure what it is. It's built like a man, but…its skin, and the way it smells. Like rotten eggs. I've never seen anything like it."

She stiffened at the description. The Ijua she'd sent after Joyce Summers wasn't supposed to come to the house. That wasn't part of the plan.

"Put him on the phone," she demanded, her voice cold.

"Don't think that's possible," the groundskeeper said. "I think whatever it is, is dead. Been worked over pretty good and it's got what looks like scorch marks all over its skin."

This was not what she needed to hear. What had happened to prevent the Ijua from fulfilling his task? And did that mean the elder Summers was that much closer to getting in the way of everything? What means of control could she possibly exert over Rupert now?

"…call the police?"

Maria jerked back to the present. "There's no need," she said firmly. "Burn the body."

"What about the woman?"

She froze. "What…woman?"

"The one passed out next to him. I think they were traveling together when they were attacked or something. Wait a sec." She heard him set the phone down and step from the guardtower, long seconds passing before she heard him return. "Found a wallet in her coat pocket. Her driver's license says her name is Joyce Summers."

To be continued in Chapter 36: All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth…


	36. All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front...

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Spike rescued a sleepwalking Holly while an unconscious Joyce has shown up at Maria's house…

-----

The holidays hadn't transpired in any fashion similar to what he'd envisioned. His imagination had conceived a quiet day spent in his flat, a small meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding to remind him of days past in England, with Buffy and any of the others popping around to wish him a "Merry Christmas." He would've indulged in some of the Ardbeg he saved for special occasions, and he most likely would've been good-natured---or drunk---enough to allow Spike a taste as they settled down to enjoy some good music and barely tolerable company. The vamp would've probably insisted on putting some inane program on the telly, but Giles would've conceded that one point, reminiscences of a youth listening to the Queen's speech on Christmas afternoon invoking the remainder of his holiday spirit.

Instead, Giles had spent Boxing Day with Silas and Paul, poring over translations that made their hostess look like Mother Teresa, his dwindling hope that Buffy was still safe somewhere consuming his thoughts to the point of distraction. Even Silas, who'd been reluctant to question any of Rupert's actions since their physical confrontation a few days previous, had voiced his concern, and Giles had snapped at him with the thinning patience of a man near the end of his tether.

He didn't want to believe that his instincts had been incorrect about Maria. She'd _threatened_ him, for God's sake. What woman would do so, with as much aplomb as she'd exhibited, without having a cruel streak within her, capable of acts more selfish than saving the world? He could buy that she was worried about her daughter, but the evidence of her actions countered the evidence of the texts, and the contradiction was dizzying.

That was why he found himself wandering the halls of the manor long past the hour everyone else had retired. He'd debated going to Maria and engaging her in conversation, hoping that she would do or say something that would help to shed light on his current conundrum. But the prospect of another confrontation had left Giles weary, and instead he aimed for the kitchen, the one room that had been declared completely accessible without undue question.

He was surprised to find the light on, and the cook hovering over a steaming kettle. She looked up when he entered, nodding in acknowledgement, but quickly returned to whatever she was preparing, placing a pair of cups and tea accoutrements on a waiting tray.

"I don't suppose there's enough for a third," Giles said with a half-smile.

"Should be," came the response. "I just have to get this to the mistress, if you don't mind waiting."

He nodded. "I hadn't expected she'd be entertaining at such a late hour," he commented. "Silas and Paul were both asleep, last I checked."

"You didn't hear the flap?" At his denial, she added, "There was a woman found out front with a dead body. The mistress had her brought in, to find out what happened to her."

Giles' heart sped up in his chest. It was too farfetched to consider that it could be Buffy; he sincerely doubted that Maria would be so casual about inviting the Slayer into her home. Still, Buffy had a habit of leaving dead bodies in her wake. With as many other fantastic turns of event that had occurred over the past week, it was certainly within the realm of possibility that she might appear on the doorstep.

"Is she all right?" he asked carefully. "I assume because Maria hasn't called for an ambulance---."

"Out cold when she was brought in," the cook interrupted. She was warming up to the idea of gossip. "She came to soon enough, but she complained of a headache and asked for tea." She shook her head. "Don't know what a woman her age is doing out in the middle of nowhere this time of night, though. At least the mistress understands her limitations. And the thing she was found with? The gardens are going to reek for a week. It's just not natural for things like that to exist."

Not Buffy then, Giles realized as he hung back. Which was a shame, because he would've rather enjoyed seeing his Slayer have a word or two with Maria. The only one who would be more enjoyable to watch tell Maria off was---.

The kitchen door clicked behind the cook as she left the room, leaving Giles lost in a newfound hope.

It couldn't be.

But Maria had already told him about the possibility. He'd just assumed that she'd follow through on her threat from a distance. He'd never imagined that she'd bring Joyce Summers into her direct influence.

He was going to have to find out for himself once morning came around. If Joyce was here, she needed to know about what was going on.

-----

Holly had curled into a tight ball beneath his duster, her eyes shut tight in sleep, by the time the pair returned to the cabin. The sound of the shower filtered from behind the closed bathroom door, but Spike only gave it a cursory glance before heading straight for the fireplace. The child was chilled to the bone; he needed to get her warmed up before her exposure began to have any more ill effects than it already had. This was one of those times he hated the fact that he couldn't generate his own body heat.

Spike's hands worked expertly over her exposed limbs, massaging with gentle power until the temperature of the fire began to seep into her languid muscles. Though he hadn't been affected by the cold, a shivering had started deep within his gut long before he got back to the cabin, and now, with Holly's pallor a too-loud testimony to his failure to protect her, it was threatening to overwhelm him.

It wasn't until he'd been caught with the barrier between them that the depth of Spike's fear had struck him. Being unable to truly help Buffy had shaken his sense of power; he held little doubt that his efforts were just a minor contribution to her recovery. But with Holly…having the child look up to him, being important to someone who believed unequivocally in him…it was only when he thought he might lose that, that Spike realized just how desperately he needed it.

So, his words for the duration of the flight back to the cabin had been all the same theme.

_"Promise you, pidge," he'd said. "No more need for you to be afraid, not with Spike on the watch. Promise with everything that I am, or was, or will be. I'm not goin' to fail you again."_

Not having to face Buffy right away was almost a relief. There had been a moment out in the forest that he could've sworn he smelled her, but that had been dispelled when he walked in and heard her in the shower. He hadn't actually expected her to listen to his request, but knowing that she had, knowing that she'd trusted in his judgment as well, almost made him buckle. He couldn't have her knowing how he'd come so close to losing the little girl; how much ground would he lose if Buffy were to find out just what a royal screw-up he actually was?

His hands were still shaking when he heard the bathroom door open behind him, the steam curling in slippery fingers out into the main room. Hiding the tremors with the task of tucking Holly into the place on the couch they'd vacated earlier, Spike felt Buffy approach, her warm hand settling momentarily on his shoulder before stretching past to touch the child's forehead.

"How is she?" she asked softly.

"Got a bit chilled," he replied, just as quietly. "But she seems to be sorted."

"And you?"

He glanced back at her, a small frown drawing his brows together. "I just fetched her in from the cold," Spike said. "What would be wrong with me?"

Buffy shrugged, but there was a seriousness to her gaze as she bent to meet his eyes. Her wet hair stuck to her cheeks, proof to her haste to get out of the shower and meet him, and she smelled like heaven, soap and skin and Slayer mingling to divert him from his worries. For the first time, he noticed that she wore only a towel, beads of water still clinging to her bare shoulders, and his mouth watered at the sight. The instinct to drop his attention from Holly and pour out his frustrations into Buffy's flesh was overwhelming, but he stifled it by breaking from the Slayer's stare.

"You were just gone a long time," she said. "I…I didn't know if you might've met up with some kind of nasty out there."

"No need to worry about me. I can take care of myself." He had to bite his cheek not to comment on how he was the _only_ one he seemed able to do that for these days.

She moved away at that, seemingly taking him at his word, and Spike felt an instant pang at the loss of her body heat against his back. "I think I'm hungry," Buffy said. "Do you want me to heat you up some blood?"

"God, yes," Spike muttered. An even better idea spurred him to his feet, and he was reaching over her head before she could even open the refrigerator. "Think a shot of something stronger might be in order, too."

He didn't even bother with a glass. Opening the Jack Daniels, Spike brought the bottle up to his mouth and gulped down a long swig, feeling the borrowed heat sear his throat, coating his lungs in fire before settling to a familiar burn in his stomach. The only thing it didn't do was chase away the ache of failure that still clutched at his heart; all the alcohol could do for that was make him forget about it for a few precious minutes.

He was downing his second swallow when Buffy's voice startled him.

"Do you ever think about biting me any more?"

His head snapped around, and he saw her gazing down at the blood she was pouring into the saucepan. "Where the hell did that come from?" Spike demanded.

"Does that mean you do?"  
"That means, where the hell did that come from?"

Her skin was pinking from the heat of the burner, her eyes unable to meet his. "I'm getting your food ready, I'm in a thinking kind of mood. It's not really the Grand Canyon of leaps, you know."

He didn't need another of her mistrust tirades right then. Granted, it had been a few days since he'd been on the wrong side of one of Buffy's speeches, but with his ego as fragile as it currently was, the last thing Spike needed was to be cut even lower.

"Thanks ever so," he growled, his hand curling protectively around the Jack bottle as he slumped into one of the kitchen chairs.

It was snatched away from him before he could take another drink. "Will you stop being the drama queen for two seconds and actually remember that we're on the same side now?" Buffy snapped. She set the whisky on the counter, beyond his reach. When she turned back to face him, her eyes were sparking, but what could've prompted her reaction, Spike had no idea.

"It was a genuine question," she continued. "Complete with question mark and snideness lackage. How many times are we going to have the I actually trust you argument before you start believing me?"

"Shouldn't," he shot back.

"Shouldn't what?"

"Trust me. I'll only fuck you over, too."

"What? You haven't---." Her head jerked to where Holly was still wrapped up in front of the fireplace, and she sighed. "It's not your fault she went sleepwalking," Buffy said, her voice calmer.

"No, it's my fault she got out in the first place."

"You brought her back, safe and sound."

He stayed silent. If he spoke, he'd have to lie to hide just how close he'd come to losing Holly, and, given his current state of mind, Spike was fairly sure Buffy would rip through his façade like tissue paper. Instead, he jerked his chin to the stove. "Blood's burning."

With a muffled curse, Buffy turned away, grabbing the panhandle and then almost yelping as the sudden heat seared into her palm. To her credit, she didn't flinch as she moved it off the burner, gritting her teeth in silent determination, but the instant it was free from her grasp, she was running for the sink, turning on the tap to let the cool water flow over her skin.

"You're infuriating, you know that?" she queried. She didn't bother looking back; Spike had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn't have been so blunt with him if she had to look at him to say it. "You spend so much time convincing me to give you the benefit of the doubt, even getting me to go all lovey heart which is _so_ not my style, and then you turn around and pull out all these crap insecurities and you expect me not to react? Do you do it to deliberately piss me off? Because inquiring minds are dying to know here."

"Buffy---."

"I'm not done." Grabbing a dish towel, she deftly wrapped it around her hand, busying herself with the minutiae of tending to her wound instead of meeting his gaze. "You honestly think I forget for a second that you're not a vampire? Open your eyes, Spike. I'm reminded every single time you touch me, and considering how much touchy-feely has been going on here the past few days, that's pretty much all the time."

Now, she looked up. Spike could see the anger brightening the green, the tight lines at the corners of her mouth as she held her temper in check. But he could also see the hurt buried within her aspect, masked by the pride she wouldn't let slip, not even for him, and felt shame swell up inside his gut.

"I asked you the biting question because I'm amazed that you've gone to the lengths you have for Holly and for me, especially knowing what you are. I know you _hate_ having the chip, but I also know it's the only reason I've had the chance to get to really see you because without it, you would've tried killing me the first chance you got. Hell, without it, you wouldn't even be here. So, tell me. Where do you get off telling me who I can and can't trust? You want me to love you, but the second I think I could---."

"What was that?" He had to have misheard her. It was completely impossible for Buffy to have just admitted what she did. Just in case, though, he rose to his feet and closed the distance between them. No chance of his ears not working right if he was standing right in front of her.

Her cheeks went white, her eyes wide. "What was what?" she backpeddled.

Spike's head tilted, all thought of his fears regarding Holly and the potential of hurting Buffy scattering in the face of her almost admission. "Never said anything about lovin', pet. All I ever asked for was a little respect, maybe a spot of honesty. So what's this about thinkin' you can love me?"

"It's nothing---," she started, but when she tried to push past him, Spike's arm shot up to block her way.

"If it was nothin', you wouldn't be so quick to rabbit off."

"And if it was anything, don't you think I'd tell you?"

"No, I think you'd be doin' exactly what you are." Keeping her path barred, Spike lifted his other hand to cup the side of her face, holding her firm when she tried to pull away. "Should apologize to you for bein' such a sourpuss," he said softly. His thumb stroked the delicate line of her cheek, the guilt at the fact that she'd been trying so hard to talk to him and he'd refused to accept her at face value spurring him to continue. "Just…still a bit keyed about the little one. She almost---."

"Ssshhh." She silenced him with slim fingers rising to his mouth, and his lips automatically parted to allow him to taste them. "You don't have to explain anything. I know you've been through a lot the past couple days. If that doesn't give you a reason to be cranky, then I'm not sure what does."

She meant it. Spike could see it on her face, in the possessive lean of her body. He'd been so wrapped up in his own feelings that he hadn't seen just how strong hers were, too. And while he was dying to push the envelope on her aborted confession, he also knew that doing so would probably just push her further away. Right now, that was the last thing he wanted.

So, he gave her what _she_ wanted.

"Your answer's yes," Spike murmured, his eyes downcast with the confession. "I think about what you'd taste like more often than'd probably make you comfortable. Not to kill you, mind you. Not even to hurt. Don't think I could bear that any more anyway. But…biting and drinking is more than the kill, pet. It's about a connection. Don't expect you'd know anything about that, though."

"I know a little." Though he didn't see her face, he saw her fingers rise to ghost over the scar on her neck, and he grimaced at the thought of Angel's mouth pressed to that tender spot. The Master had had his taste, too, but Spike doubted she felt anything remotely romantic in regard to that little nibble. And the blazing flare of jealousy that sprang to his heart at the thought of having to relinquish such a pivotal part of Buffy's history to the Grand Poofah made him want to tear into her even more.

"That first night was hell," he admitted. "You were bleedin' all over the place, and I couldn't shake the smell of you."

"But you didn't even try anything." She said it almost as if she still found it impossible to believe. "Even then---."

"Don't be turnin' it into anything noble. That was all about savin' my own hide. I knew you'd stake me if I so much as blinked at you wrong, and when it comes to gettin' through a rough patch, you're pretty much ace. I was just pitchin' my tent in the winning camp."

"And saving Holly? Don't try telling me that's anything close to self-centered."

He gnawed at his cheek, wondering how he could phrase it without giving too much away. "Made her a promise," Spike finally said. "I don't have much, so I've got this sick need to make my word worth gold. Thought you might've sussed that out by now."

Buffy's lips quirked. "Gold, huh? That's why you came back to Sunnydale after promising me you'd stay away?"

She was teasing him, a faint good-heartedness meant to draw the sting from their earlier squabble. Spike took the olive branch, shoving aside the emotional drain that had been his evening, and lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"Like you could bear not havin' my manly self around to keep you distracted," he taunted.

Buffy's gaze flickered over his shoulder. "Do you think Holly's out for the night?" she asked.

"Doesn't matter," he replied. "I'm not sleeping any time soon to miss her goin' out and about again."

He sighed in pleasure when her fingers began running along the upper edge of his waistband, the tip of her index disappearing beneath his tee to etch a thin, fiery trail across his navel. "You should probably warm up," she said, and her voice was thick with emotion. "We've had enough sickies around here not to be adding you to the list."

Spike's eyes drifted shut when Buffy stretched to run her tongue along the side of his neck. "Don't get sick," he rumbled, and groaned when her blunt teeth bit into his jugular. Sliding his hands beneath her towel, he cupped her ass to yank her forward, eliciting a small squeak from her throat when he did so. "Can prove to you just how not sick I am."

When her arms slid around his neck, giving him the control he hadn't asked for but so desperately wanted, Spike buried his face into her shoulder, his mouth and tongue thanking her with an adulation that brought goosebumps to her exposed skin. Memories of the lake still hovered on the periphery of his awareness, but every second that Buffy forced him to remember her trust in him dimmed its vividness, driving him to replace his dissatisfaction with the deepening roots of his feelings for her.

She was making it far too easy to love her.

And if she could come that close to admitting it, then, damn it, so could he.

To be continued in Chapter 37: Love Came Down at Christmas…


	37. Love Came Down at Christmas

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: A discussion about biting and his responsibility regarding Buffy and Holly has led Spike to muse on the depth of his feelings for Buffy…

-----

There was an electrical charge to his every moment, a feral waiting that outlined the flex in his arms as he lifted Holly to the couch, tucked the blankets tight around her. As Buffy watched---and she couldn't stop, not when the power he held back with every sweep of his hand called out to her with a primal hunger more instinctive than reasoned---Spike set to the task of blocking the front door of the cabin with a grim determination indicative of his most recent shift of mood, and she wondered just what had triggered it this time.

Was it the alcohol? Or had her words finally sunk through that thick skull of his?

She wasn't sure. She suspected it was a bit of both, that he'd taken them as the hard slap to reality he'd needed. He'd been too distracted to even notice her pathetic attempt to hide the fact that she'd been outside, too. The shower had been the only thing she could think of on such short notice, a ploy to buy her time while she divested herself of her clothing and warmed her skin to mask the chill from outdoors. He was too unsettled to even catch the lack of a heavy soap scent on Buffy's flesh, which for Spike, was a pretty big miss.

As much as she found herself feeling for his situation, he infuriated her with his refusal to believe what was right in front of him. Didn't he see how hard she was trying here? After the debacles of Angel and Parker and Riley, having the nerve to slice open her heart and lay it bare for anyone of the male persuasion who wasn't Giles or Xander took more of Buffy's fortitude than staving off the next apocalypse. That wasn't even considering the truth of Holly's opinion, either. The little girl adored Spike---_trusted_ Spike---and he was too wrapped up in his insecurities to really see.

Well, he had been, at least. Buffy suspected that the ground had officially shifted.

When he finished with the doorway, his head swiveled to level his gaze at her, eyes dark through his lashes, his tongue running along the edge of his teeth as if he was considering the taste of her. "Can get back to business now," he said, and started to stalk to where he'd left her sitting on the edge of the kitchen table. "Nothin' left to interrupt us this time."

"I'm business?" she said in faux wide-eyed innocence. "Am I a drive-thru or an all-you-can-eat kind of business?"

Spike's lips curled. "Who says you're not both, luv?"

His hands reached for her hips, digging into the soft flesh to tug her closer. Automatically, Buffy's legs wrapped around him, the table suddenly too cold beneath her bottom, and she groaned when the hard line of his erection pressed into her wet cleft. "We've got to come up with better analogies than fast food," she breathed. Her eyes fluttered shut when his mouth pressed to her throat, and she tilted her head to allow him better access. "I sound cheap."

"Don't forget easy."

She slapped at his back. "Not helping, Spike."

Blunt teeth began nibbling a path back up to her mouth. "There's nothin' easy about you, Buffy," Spike said. "Fresh, and intricate, and more lovely to fathom than anything I've had the pleasure of in decades." He captured her lips in a bruising, though quick, kiss.

"Only decades?" she teased when they broke apart. Secretly, though, she hummed in pleasure at his words. Who knew Spike could be so eloquent? Riley sure hadn't been, and Parker, well, Parker's angst-ridden, puppy-eyed monologues had suckered her, that's for sure, but they'd never reached into her gut and just squeezed.

And with Angel…they had never been much about talking.

"If you think about it," he was murmuring, his mouth never stopping, "I've only had the past week to come to know this for certain. Stick with me a bit longer, pet, and I've no doubt you'll shatter that little time limit."

Her skin was vibrating in her want for more.

More lips.

More tongue.

More fingers.

More Spike.

And she couldn't stop from begging for it.

Spike's response was a hungry growl as his grip tightened. Suddenly, Buffy felt the room swim around her as he turned to carry her to the bedroom, the towel slipping loose from its mooring to leave her backside bare, though the pressure of their torsos kept it in place in front.

"Where are you going?" she said, her gaze shooting to the loft ladder as they passed it.

"Want to fuck you in a bed where I don't have to fuss about you falling off if I roll you over," he replied. "Pidge doesn't need it for the night, so we're goin' to borrow it for a few hours."

His weight pressed her into the mattress, the terry towel rubbing against Buffy's hardened nipples in a delicious rasp that sent shocks straight to her clit. When her hands fought to grab the hem of Spike's shirt, though, his fingers wrapped around her wrists, ceasing the motion and twisting her arms up and over her head.

Her eyes shot open to see Spike hovering above her. "What're you doing?" she asked.

Spike didn't say a word. Taking both of her slim wrists in one hold, his freed hand slid down between their torsos, peeling the towel away with just enough force to make her gasp. Quickly, he rolled it into a coil, and looped it through the bars of the headboard. He had pressed her forward to the top of the mattress before he finally spoke.

"Do you trust me?"

There was no hesitation in her reply.

"Yes."

Satisfaction glinted deep within the blue, and Spike wasted no time in binding the towel around her wrists, releasing his grip to tighten the knot to keep her still. Buffy's muscles stretched along her sides, but it wasn't painful, more of a heightened awareness of the sinew of her flesh, taut and fluid and oh so ready to be pushed and molded. Her breath quickened. She'd begged once. She wasn't ready to do it again.

Yet.

Spike's fingers feathered down her neck, hesitating at the throbbing in her throat before his head bent to lick at the pulsing that lingered there. "Not a man," he whispered. "Know you want to fool yourself into thinking so, and it's nice to forget for a moment myself, but that's not what I am, Buffy."

It was an avowal she'd known was coming. "I know," she whispered back. Her back arched away from the bed when his mouth suddenly latched to her breast, his tongue sharp and pointed against the sensitive tip, and she had to force herself not to break the bonds he'd given her, even if she wanted to hold Spike closer.

"Do you?" He asked the question without looking up. The mattress shifted dangerously beneath her as he lowered his weight to her side. His clothing made her skin itch, ravenous for him to be harder, rougher, just _moremoremore_,and Buffy chewed at her lip to keep from crying out. Squeezing her eyelids shut against the blinding sensations of his mouth---_oh god that mouth_---trailing wet and deadly in its quest to taste all of her, she barely heard him add, "Look at me, luv."

It took all her will to do as he requested.

Golden eyes gazed back at her. Stretched along her side, Spike now watched her with his ridges prominent, his tongue curled up behind his fangs. He waited, his body tense, his fingers expectant, and she said the only thing she could.

"I told you," Buffy murmured, "I trust you. All of you."

Slowly, Spike rose from the bed, his gaze locked on her quivering flesh. After taking off his shirt, his hands lowered to his jeans, freeing his hard cock from their confines and pushing them down and out of the way. He didn't return to her side right away, though. Instead, his fingers curled around his arousal, deliberately pulling its length until his thumb brushed across the glistening tip.

She was transfixed by the sight. Her mouth watered, her body straining to close the distance between them, but the echo of her promise locked her in place, only a whimper of need escaping her throat to testify to Buffy's hunger. "Spike," she said, and her voice sounded hollow and starved, even to her.

The unspoken request for him to join her hung between them, but the vampire just stood there, long fingers sliding up and down his cock. "Want to savor this," he drawled. His eyes swept along her exposed flesh, lingering on the swell of her breast before dropping to the soft dip of her pelvis. "Do you know what you do to me, luv?" His voice was coarsening, his tongue flicking along his fangs in growing desire, and she shivered in anticipation.

"Yes. You've told me."

"No." He moved so quickly, Buffy could only gasp when she suddenly felt his weight atop her hips. "You asked if I still think of biting you. You think you can look at me like this and still wonder?"

His head bent and his mouth was on hers before she could answer. She knew what to expect; she'd kissed Angel when he'd been in vampface on more than one occasion. But Buffy had expected Spike's kiss to be different. Harder. More demanding. Just…different.

And it was, but not in the way she'd expected. It _was_ more demanding than any of Angel's kisses had ever been, Spike's tongue sweeping in to tangle with hers with infinite languor, but the aching indolence in which he searched the sweltering depths of her mouth, the care he took to keep his fangs from nicking her, spoke louder than any words he might have uttered.

Before he could break the kiss, Buffy thrust her tongue into his mouth, catching it against the tip of one of his deadly canines and feeling the warm trickle of her blood tinge her taste buds. She didn't question why it was his chip didn't trigger, other than to decide that maybe her instigation had prevented it from thinking he was hurting her, but let him taste the coppery fluid, waiting to see how he would respond.

Spike froze.

All she could hear was the pounding in her ears.

All she could do was wait.

Carefully, Spike withdrew from the kiss, and she saw the ridges soften around his eyes as he struggled between his demon and human masks. The tip of his tongue appeared between his scarlet-stained lips, catching the tiny droplets that had escaped, and his nostrils flared when the taste assaulted his senses again. More than any of that, though, Buffy saw the awe and surprise in his yellow eyes as the depth of what she'd done penetrated his awareness.

She didn't know what to say to him.

Her Slayer instincts were screaming at her for her foolishness, and the prospect of trying to explain any of this to Giles, already huge on the ick factor anyway because sex and the Watcher were most definitely unmixy, made her start to wish she hadn't initiated what was fast moving beyond what she'd imagined.

Her heart was thumping away in her chest, desperate to escape, confused by the ache of emotion that swelled forth at the call of wonder. It wanted her to profess to feelings she wasn't ready to admit out loud; it wanted to be free of having to hide behind its walls.

Her head was torn between the two.

So she said nothing, because Buffy was somehow convinced that if she did, it would come out wrong and shatter what tenuous new bond was forging between them.

And she watched.

And waited. Again.

Spike's hand slipped between their bodies, skating between her breasts, over her stomach, stopping at the junction of her thighs. Strong fingers gripped her leg, prising it apart from its mate, and then slipped between her outer lips to dip into her juices, taking care not to touch anywhere near her clit.

Buffy's hips bucked. A jolt shot up her spine as she managed to make contact with the heel of his hand, but all motion in her body was stilled when he pushed her back down.

"Stay," he ordered, and there was no argument to be made with the tone of his voice. Again, his face loomed above her, eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the bedroom. "Stay," Spike repeated, and this time it was softer, almost pleading.

She stayed.

Lowering his mouth back to her neck, Spike began to slide his fingers in and out of Buffy's pussy, matching the rhythm of the in and out with his tender sucking along her flesh. She could feel his fangs scoring tiny razor cuts along her skin, and then the cool palliative of his tongue as it caught the miniscule ribbons of blood before moving on to the next exposed patch of her trembling body. Each lick, and each ensuing sliver of tooth, made the moans start deep within her throat, her muscles straining to get closer, her control swiftly spiraling beyond any measure of command. It all burned with an exquisite throb, but whether it was because of her acquiescence to his authority or because of something else, Buffy had no idea.

The thrusting of his fingers became stronger, no longer just one or two but three or even four, by the feel of it. His thumb pressed into her clit, an unrelenting force that refused her release, just added and added and added again to the sensations until Buffy was swimming in them. There was nothing gentle about this lovemaking. This was primal beyond anything she had ever imagined, and even as she felt her nipple get snagged between Spike's teeth---not his fangs, she realized; it amazed her that he could still find the self-control not to give in to her desire for this---Buffy knew it was just as much about her as it was about him.

Her orgasm came out of nowhere.

As the contractions started deep within her pelvis, Buffy bowed back, her lips parting to allow the keening to escape her throat. Vaguely, she became aware of Spike grabbing her hips, pulling her torso even more taut as he yanked her closer, and his thick cock slammed into her, no remorse in its unrestrained power, each glide and thrust scathing as her pussy rippled around his length.

He fucked her without restraint, refusing to allow her to come down from her orgasm as wave after wave washed over her, demanding mastery over her muscles as she writhed and convulsed beneath him. When he came, Spike roared, and then fell forward to bury his face in her exposed neck, his demon visage long gone as his mouth pulled at the soft muscle of her throat. She felt his hands lift, and then hers were free, coming down of their own accord to begin stroking his corded back.

It took a few minutes for her to find her voice again.

"If Holly wakes up, it's going to be your fault," Buffy teased softly.

He pulled back, and she met the dark blue of his eyes with confidence. "I don't understand why the chip didn't go off," Spike murmured.

"Because it didn't hurt me, you big dummy."

For a second, his gaze flickered down to her breasts, and she knew he could see that the cuts were already healing, if not entirely gone. "You shouldn't have---."

"You better not be about to say what I think you're about to say," Buffy said. She tightened her grip around him, pulling him even deeper inside and squeezing until he let out a groan. "I liked it. Maybe it won't be like that every time, but, you know, it's a part of you, and well…it _was_ kind of hot."

He grinned at that, reaching up to push back a lock of her hair that had plastered itself to her cheek. "Understatement, luv."

Carefully, Spike pulled out of her wet depths, rolling onto his side and nuzzling her against him. Buffy felt his still-hard length nestle between her ass cheeks, and had to fight not to squirm into it. They _really_ needed to get some sleep.

"Go to sleep now," Spike whispered, again sparking the question in her mind of whether or not he could read her thoughts. "Need your rest."

Already her lids were drifting shut. "What…about…Holly?"

"Don't you mind about the little one. I'm on the watch for tonight."

The soft stroking of his fingertips along the underside of her breasts made her sigh. "OK," Buffy murmured. She had no strength to argue with him, just as she had no doubt that he would be true to his word. "G'night, Spike."

"Good night, pet."

And just before she felt the world vanish around her, like the gentle promise of a summer evening breeze, from far away she heard…

"Love you, Buffy."

-----

In deference to Doyle's temporary corporeal form, they met in the parking lot of the bar he picked out. A broken string of Christmas lights hung from the neon sign, and the pick-up he was parked beside sported a fake white Christmas tree mounted to its roof, a Budweiser frog with a red bulb in its mouth on its peak as an unheralded angel.

Jenny's brows quirked as she examined the show of holiday spirit, and then shook her head as she turned away from the truck. "Is it January yet?" she complained. "I think I've reached my limit of good will toward men. Especially stupid men."

"I hope that's not a judgment of yours truly," Doyle said. "As the only testosterone-driven member of our little group, I'd like to lodge a complaint with the bosses upstairs if it is."

"Play nice, you two." Their third pushed her hair back off her face. Her eyes were weary, her motions lethargic. "It's been a long day for all of us."

"A long week," Jenny corrected. "And still four more days to go."

"And for the record, I want it to be known I tried talking Joyce out of her little plan, too," Doyle said. "I think it's just as daft as the rest of you do."

Jenny turned toward the other woman. "How're Buffy and Spike doing?"

She bit her lip. Her task had been to keep an eye on the cabin; did they _really _want to know what she had witnessed? Somehow, she doubted it. Jenny's faith in the vampire was already shaky at best.

"They're coping," she said instead. "Considering neither of them have that much experience with kids, they're doing pretty well."

"I'm just surprised they haven't killed each other," Jenny went on. "After Angel, I thought Buffy would have better sense."

"We're not here to judge them." Her voice was harsh, harsher than she usually used, but she was tired of having to defend the two blonds. Neither of the others had seen them like she had; neither of them knew that each would be the savior for the other. "All we have to do is make sure that nothing happens to Holly. And leaving her in Buffy and Spike's care is the best way for that to happen."

Jenny sighed. "You are ever the optimist, Tara," she said. "I just hope you're right. Maria's played relatively nice so far, but with her deadline so close, I have a feeling that won't be lasting."

Tara nodded. The next four days were going to be the true test. Even knowing Maria's location, and even with Joyce there to ensure the aging witch didn't learn the truth, there was no guarantee the measures they'd taken were going to be enough. Holly's sleepwalking earlier that night---something _none_ of them could've predicted---had frightened Tara as she watched helpless from the sidelines. And then afterward, with Buffy and Spike…

"What's wrong?"

Jenny was looking at her quizzically, and Tara felt the flush that had risen to her cheeks. "Nothing," she said hastily. The others would never learn how close they'd come to losing Holly tonight, or hear about what happened between the Slayer and her vampire. "I'm just…tired. And worried for Mrs. Summers." She offered them a wan smile. "I've been listening to you two for too long. You've got me wondering how this is going to turn out when I should _know_ everything's going to be all right."

"Oh, but we do know that, don't we, girls?" Doyle's grin was bright as he gestured toward the Christmas decorations nearby. "It's the most wonderful time of the year. No way can the bad guys win."

To be continued in Chapter 38: There's a New Kid in Town…


	38. There's a New Kid in Town

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Spike have reached a new plateau in their relationship, while Joyce has appeared at Maria's…

-----

She awoke with a small headache, the kind that pulsed right behind the eyeballs so that it was impossible to ignore its presence. Doyle had warned her that would be an effect of the knockout spell they used to simulate being unconscious, but Joyce had hoped that having the cup of tea with Maria before going to bed would contravene the magical repercussions. It was the only reason she'd so readily agreed to it. From the moment she'd seen the older woman face to face, it had taken every ounce of her self-control not to demonstrate just how tough someone had to be when they lived on the Hellmouth.

The house wasn't what she expected. From the way the ghosts had talked, Joyce had envisioned Maria as the Evil Queen from Snow White, tucked away in a stone turret as she cackled over her steaming cauldron. What she'd found instead was Martha Stewart's much richer cousin in a house packed to the gills with style and art that made her gallery feel like a second class citizen. The room Joyce had woken in was the epitome of elegance, and the bed put hers back in Sunnydale to shame.

Note to self, she thought as she pushed the feather-filled comforter off her legs. It's not the best idea to start getting jealous of the bad guys.

She was surprised to see fresh clothes laid out for her, the jeans and sweater she'd worn on her arrival completely missing from her search of the room. If they had fit perfectly, it would almost have been easier to gird her determination against the older woman, but the fact that the blouse was just a bit too baggy and the trousers an inch shorter than she would've preferred only made Joyce more ill-at-ease. It was too much like she really had just stumbled across the house. If Maria was such an all-powerful witch like Doyle and the others had testified, wouldn't she at least have offered clothing that fit properly?

She hadn't gleaned anything from the one brief conversation she'd had with her, either.

_"I can't thank you enough for…well, for getting me away from that thing," Joyce had said, feigning a damsel in distress tone to her voice that she knew would make Buffy cringe. It certainly made her wince. "Do you know what it was? It didn't look human."_

_"I wouldn't know," Maria had claimed. Her eyes had been steady on Joyce's as she'd lied through her teeth. "You were found alone, Mrs. Summers. I have only your assertion that this…creature was even responsible for your condition."_

She had only nodded. Maria's pretense that Joyce had been the only person on the grounds would've been completely plausible if Joyce didn't know for a fact that the demon's dead body had been left with her. Doyle claimed it was the only way to confuse the witch into letting her inside. With Joyce's story, Maria was to believe that the demon had been forced to amend his kidnapping, taking her directly to the witch when it looked like he was being pursued. It would explain his charred body being found with her.

She just hadn't anticipated having to face a woman who purported not to know anything about it.

Joyce had been taken to the guest room and fallen asleep before she could consider anything else. And now here she was, suddenly a doubting Thomasina about the whole arrangement because there was no sign of Rupert and there was no sign of evil-doing. She would've expected being able to pick up on those sort of indications after so many years in Sunnydale.

The doorknob twisted in her hand before she could open it, and Joyce jumped back, startled, to see Maria standing on the other side.

"So glad to see you up," the older woman said with a warm smile. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better. Thank you." It occurred to Joyce that she hadn't heard a knock, and silently pondered why that had been.

"I thought you might like to join me for breakfast," Maria was saying. "Something a little more substantial than tea, if your stomach can handle it."  
Her stomach made the reply for her, by choosing that moment to gurgle loudly. Joyce flushed. "Breakfast sounds lovely," she said, and closed the door behind her to follow Maria down the hall.

They walked in silence for a long moment, all sounds of their tread sucked up by the plush carpeting beneath their feet. It was only when they reached the curved staircase that Maria spoke.

"I find myself curious about this…traveling companion of yours," she said, not bothering to look behind as she descended the stairs.

"Did you find him?" Joyce was eager to start testing the waters of what exactly Maria knew. She needed to know how close she was to finding Buffy; it was the only way to ensure that she didn't get too close to the truth.

"No." The answer disappointed Joyce. "What intrigues me is that you would be traveling with someone such as that in the first place."

"I told you. He was holding me against my will. If it wasn't for that last attack, I don't know what I would've done."

"So…you're unaware of what exactly his purpose was?"

She was supposed to say no. She was supposed to feign ignorance of any of the kidnapping arrangements. The way it had been planned out, Joyce was supposed to play the innocent puppet in all this and let Maria sink her own ship.

The only problem with that was Maria seemed far too in control of her rudder to allow any sinking to occur. Joyce needed to start looking for an iceberg.

"He was hired to kill me," Joyce said. The bald statement was the first to stop the other woman, and Maria paused at the bottom of the staircase to look back at her with a raised brow. "I think someone considered me a threat."

The cool sweep of her hostess' gaze was accompanied by a small smile. "No offense, Mrs. Summers, but you don't seem the type. Why would anyone possibly consider you a threat?"

"Because my daughter is the Slayer."

There wasn't even a blink of recognition.

"Is that some new teenager thing?" Maria quizzed. "I'm afraid I'm rather cut off from much of the modern world. I can never keep up with the latest trends and whatnot."

"It means she's the Chosen One." Joyce was very glad none of the ghosts were around to hear her. None of this was meant to be revealed, but she just couldn't think of any other way to chink at this woman's armor. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Surely you've heard of her."

"And why would you think that?"

Joyce's lips pursed shut. No, she just couldn't go _that_ far. That would be suicidal.

Maria resumed walking again. "Perhaps that blow to your head did more damage than you think, Mrs. Summers. I believe I'll call my personal physician so that he can take a closer look at you."

"I told you, I'm fine---."

"Women who are fine don't profess to have birthed some supernatural demon killer. They also don't have delusions about kidnapping schemes."

"I'm not delusional!"

She stopped before heavy double doors and glanced back at Joyce before pushing them open. "Perhaps breakfast is too much for you," Maria mused. "You seem…aggravated."

"Because you called me delusional!" She took a deep breath. Calm down, Joyce thought. She was too quickly losing her cool. That would only get Buffy killed.

"I merely suggested that maybe you underestimated your injuries." She stepped into the empty dining room, the scent of bacon wafting out into the corridor to tickle Joyce's nose. "Are you normally so susceptible to suggestion? Should this be a…character flaw I should be aware of?"

There was no malice in her tone, her face placid, but Maria's choice of words made it all too clear that she was deliberately goading her new guest. Joyce balled her hands into fists at her sides, and she counted to ten in her head before crossing the threshold into the dining room.

"Maybe you're right," Joyce said. Time to switch tactics. "I should probably get a hold of my doctor and see if he can see me. If you could just let me use the phone---."

"That's hardly necessary. I've told you, you can full use of my personal physician."

"I don't want to impose."

"And I don't want to be held liable should you leave my care and promptly have an attack or get hurt in some way." Maria unfolded her napkin into her lap. "Do sit down, Mrs. Summers. The least you can do is have a good breakfast before you're examined."

"You can't possibly think you're going to keep me here against my will?"

"I'm keeping you here for your own good."

"I don't think so." Whirling on her heel, Joyce marched toward the open doors. Before she could reach them, though, they slammed shut of their own accord.

"I said…Sit. Down."

A shiver ran down Joyce's spine as she slowly turned back to the table.

Maria hadn't moved. She was carefully stirring sugar into her teacup, her other hand casually resting on the side of the table nearest the doors, but her eyes were fixed on Joyce, icy and calculating. "Is this any way to act as a guest in my home?" she commented.

"I'm a prisoner, not a guest."

"Trust me, Mrs. Summers. Prisoners do not get treated as well as you have been. However, if those circumstances are more to your liking, I'm sure I can accommodate you. Now. I do believe I asked you to sit down."

Reluctantly, Joyce took a seat at the table. She had been warned about the witch's power, but since the older woman had been acting so…normal, Joyce had momentarily forgotten. No more. From now on, she had to play this smart.

They sat in silence as the food was brought in from another door, a cornucopia of eggs, sausage, pastries and bacon overfilling the plates. Another gurgle from her stomach betrayed Joyce's hunger, but she waited until she saw her hostess begin eating before picking up her own fork.

"You're not really going to arrange for me to see your doctor, are you?" She asked the question carefully, watching Maria's reaction out of the corner of her eye.

"I might have," Maria conceded. "If you had perpetuated your little myth about not knowing the truth about your traveling companion, I would likely have played the same game. For as long as you found it entertaining."

"You think this is a game?"

Maria sighed. "No, Mrs. Summers, I think this is quite serious, and just the fact that you would treat it so lightly disturbs me more than you might guess." She chewed thoughtfully. "Tell me. How is it you were able to convince the Ijua to bring you here? And how did you _ever_ manage to overpower him?"

"I told you the truth. We were attacked."

"And did you ever find your daughter?"

The question made Joyce's blood run cold, her temper flare. "Obviously, since you're so aware of my actions, you know that answer already."

"Why would I ask if I already knew?"

"You tell me."

Wiping her mouth on her napkin, Maria took a long moment to regard Joyce before rising to her feet. Her hand made a small, elegant gesture toward the doors, prompting them to open again, and Joyce did everything she could to remain as stoic in the face of the magic as she could.

"I believe it's time to return to your room, Mrs. Summers," Maria said. "I have work to do, and you...are proving a waste of my time."

She waited, and Joyce knew that if she didn't do as the woman requested, things could get ugly. Well, uglier. This was most definitely not turning out as she'd thought it would.

"Locking me in my garret," she commented casually as she stood. "How very Wicked Witch of you."

Maria's smile was cold. "Except there will be no Prince Charming to ride to your rescue," she said. "I'm afraid he's already in my employ and will be far too busy for the duration to aid you."

Joyce's step was automatic as she followed the older woman from the dining room. Maria's last words had sent her thoughts skittering in hope.

This was just one of the pieces of information she was hoping to glean in doing this.

Giles was _here_.

-----

The little one roused just before dawn, but Buffy had heard the first sounds of her waking and scrambled to her feet before Spike could. Quickly donning a pair of sweats and a tee, she had bent to brush her soft lips across his temple, her hand on his shoulder keeping him down, murmuring, "Go to sleep, Spike. You've done enough for now."

So, he'd slept, with visions dancing in his head not of sugarplums, but of green eyes gazing up at him in trust. Of golden skin splayed out below him like a glorious canvas. Of blood that flowed sweeter than any he had ever tasted. It was a Christmas unlike any he could remember.

When he woke, Spike's vampire senses told him right away that it was only mid-morning, but his body attested to a more protracted slumber. It felt like he'd rested for a week and given Grade A infusions along the way; the only explanation he could fathom were the tiny bits of Slayer blood that he'd ingested in his encounter with Buffy.

Thinking of it made him smile as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling in satisfaction. Now _that_ had been bloody amazing. He hadn't really thought about biting her---not seriously, because the reality of the chip made the contemplation pointless---but when Buffy had deliberately cut her tongue on his fang, and those first coppery drops had suffused his being, the prospect had been too tantalizing. He had to know.

It wasn't the taste of her blood that pleased him so profoundly this morning, though. Sure, there was no discounting the sheer ecstasy of her taste, or the amazing fucking that had accompanied it. But the belief she held in him, the confidence she carried that he wouldn't hurt her, that was worth more than any of the other combined. It wasn't about thinking he was too weak for her to worry about. It was about her trusting that he was strong enough to follow his gut, his heart.

It was about respect.

And that meant more than any words she could've given him.

Speaking of words…

Spike's smile faded as he remembered what he'd whispered to her as she fell asleep. It had been the swell of the moment that had battered down his last defenses and allowed the emotion to surge forward, to take command of his better senses even before he realized the truth of it. Had she heard him? She couldn't have. She wouldn't have been so tender with him when Holly woke up.

But the feeling was still there.

He loved Buffy.

…Huh.

It wasn't what he expected. Loving Dru had been about devotion, about worshiping the ground she walked on and ensuring that she was cared for every step of the way. There was unmistakably passion, but that came with its own baggage because Spike knew, under the right circumstances, that she was willing to share that passion with others. Like Angel. Like Darla. Like a pretty young thing she saw in the street. The fact that he was always having to be on his best to try and please his dark princess tainted the purity of his feeling for her. He didn't know it at the time, of course. This was only a realization he had come to long after the fact.

He had little else to compare love with. There was William's love for Cecily, but Spike knew it wasn't real. It was just a young man's desperate need to cling to an ideal; he had never known the true Cecily. And there was his love for his mother, but that was something else entirely. And Harmony…well, the less said about Harmony, the better.

Now…there was Buffy.

Loving Buffy.

It was easier than he thought it would be. The woman he'd slowly come to know over the past week was not the woman he had thought she was. Yes, she was strong, independent, and could go from sweet to stubborn in half a second flat, but she was also funny, and smart, and perversely narcissistic in all the right ways.

And if she cared for someone, there was nothing she wouldn't do for them. Spike had tasted that one firsthand.

Loving Buffy wasn't about trying to claim some ideal. He'd done that. With Cecily. With Dru. These days, Spike's eyes were far too open to the Slayer's faults, and it was those that actually drew him in the hardest.

The fear of failure she masked under a self-confidence that so rarely cracked called to him with particular fervor. Because when Buffy failed, people died. And when people died, so did a tiny part of her. He admired that kind of passion.

What was so strange was that, somehow, in the past week, Buffy had come to see him as an equal. Gone were the days when she would tear him down, just for the sheer pleasure of hearing her own voice. She hadn't even tried hitting him in days, which, truth be told, Spike wasn't so sure was a good thing. He was going to have to teach her how a little pain could make the pleasure all that much better.

His smile returned.

What a glorious lesson that would be.

Maybe it was the little one's influence. She'd taken to him like a fish to water, and though it had infuriated him at first, the fact that Spike had grown attached to her had to have been obvious to Buffy. Maybe that had been the deciding factor for the Slayer.

Whatever it was, it made them partners. Equal partners.

_Her_ words.

_Her_ actions.

Was it any wonder he loved her?

Still, wouldn't hurt to tread carefully today. She hadn't been willing to admit that much yesterday; without being certain whether or not she heard him, Spike wasn't willing to destroy what they had built during the night. It was the most precious thing anyone had given him in a very long time. He wasn't so stupid that he was going to bugger it up with a few wrong words.

At least, he hoped he wasn't.

He was buttoning his jeans when he pulled the door open, but the sight that greeted him made him stop and tilt his head in amusement.

In the middle of the living room floor, Buffy and Holly sat opposite each other, legs crossed Indian-style, their hands covered in socks. The child's were a pair of Buffy's, white anklets with a pink stripe around the ribbing, while the Slayer had a pair of Spike's, the tip of her left index finger visible through a small hole in the tip.

The opening of the bedroom door caused the pair to stop what they were doing, and both of them turned their head toward him.

"Hi, Spike," Holly chirped brightly, the waggle of her fingers obvious even through the sock.

"Someone's lookin' bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this mornin'," he drawled.

Holly giggled. "I don't have a tail, silly," she said, turning back to their game.

Buffy's eyes were locked on his, and he knew she was more than aware his statement had been meant for more than the child. "I didn't expect you to get up so soon," she said. "It's not even lunchtime yet."

"Since when have you known me not to be up when the occasion merits it?" He waggled his eyebrows at her, and was answered by a shake of her head, though she smiled as she turned away.

"Oink, oink, Spike," she simply said.

"That's a pig," Holly announced.

"Yes, it is," Buffy confirmed.

"People aren't pigs."

He wasn't sure if Buffy would come back with her usual retort---_Spike's not people_---and couldn't help the widening of his grin when the Slayer merely said, "No, they're not."

"So," he said, striding over to the kitchen, "do I want to know why you've nicked my socks? Looks kind of kinky."

"Mine's not hinky," Holly chirped. She held up her hands, palms out. "Mine's white."

Buffy rose from her place on the floor and crossed to join him, hopping up on the counter as he began to warm up some blood. "Holly started getting upset this morning about touching me again," she explained. "The socks seemed like a good alternative."

"For what?" he asked.

"Well, it started out as Miss Susie, but she's a little young to be that coordinated---."

"Miss Susie?"

"You know." She began to mime the game as she chanted. "'Miss Susie had a baby, she named it Tiny Tim…?'"

A single eyebrow lifted.

"What? That's the way it goes!"

"Whatever you say, pet."

"It's not what we were playing when you came out, anyway. She kept smacking me in the knee so we switched. To hand puppets." Buffy held up the hand with the holed sock, wiggling her finger even more through the opening. "I call this one Mr. Pokey."

Holly's voice stopped the riposte from coming.

"Um…Buffy?"

They turned simultaneously to see the little girl staring wide-eyed at the front door of the cabin, and their gazes slid to match hers. Immediately, Spike stiffened, just as Buffy jumped down, crossing the distance to put herself between Holly and the object of their attention.

She wore a flowing skirt and soft blouse, her long dishwater-blonde hair pulled away from her simple features in a low twist. Her fingers twisted anxiously in front of her, but even if she hadn't been dressed completely inappropriately for the weather, Spike would've known from the lack of any scent or heartbeat that this was another of their bleeding ghosts.

The young woman raised a hand in nervous greeting. "Hi, guys," she said.

To be continued in Chapter 39: Angels and Shepherds…


	39. Angels and Shepherds

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce has had a brief confrontation with Maria, and Tara has shown up at the cabin…

-----

Buffy was poised in stiff caution as she faced off with the intruder, lips thin as her green eyes swept over the young woman's form. Whoever she was, she wasn't dressed for the elements, and Buffy hadn't seen or heard the door open in order to let the woman in. That left only the mystical, or ghostly as the case may be, and the Slayer opened her mouth to address the issue of uninvited guests when she paused, her eyes meeting the other's for the first time.

"Wait," Buffy said slowly, when she felt Spike come up behind her. It was just as much to him as it was to herself. "I know you."

"Don't tell me this is another of Angelus' castaways," Spike commented. "First the gypsy girl, then Doyle. He's really got a way of makin' people into turncoats, doesn't he?"

She ignored him. "You're Willow's friend, right?" Buffy continued. For a fleeting second, hope flared in her chest, her eyes darting to the door. "Is Willow here? How did you guys find us? Was it Giles? I _knew_ he'd---."

"Slow down," the woman said with a small chuckle. "Maybe you should sit. This might take awhile." Her gaze slid over Buffy's shoulder, and the Slayer could've sworn she saw her eyes warm. "And Spike can just hover if he wants. I know how hard it is for him to sit still."

"Awful friendly considerin' I don't know who in hell you are and this is _our_ bloody house," Spike said.

She sighed, shaking her head. "I keep forgetting you and I haven't met yet," she said, more to herself than to the vampire, before adding, "I'm Tara. We're friends, or we will be. It's all part of what I need to explain to you."

"You're a ghost, pet. And I don't have any friends. Let's say you try again."

But all Buffy heard was the ghost part of his proclamation. "But…I just saw you with Willow a few days before finals," she said. "What happened?"

"Oh, boy," Tara said. "I knew this was going to be tough, but I didn't think it was going to be this bad." She knelt in front of Holly, giving the child a soft smile. "I'm a friend of Doyle's," she said gently. "Do you know what that means?"

Holly nodded. "I heard you and Doyle talking. 'Bout protecting me."

"That's right. And I need to talk to Buffy and Spike about some grown-up stuff. Do you think you can go into the bedroom and play with your dolly while I do that?"

The little girl glanced back at Buffy, waiting for confirmation of the request. After a moment, the Slayer nodded. "It won't be long," she said. "And then we'll get back to our puppets. I promise."

"Can Spike be Mr. Monkeypants this time?"

She couldn't stop the grin. "I think Spike would _love_ to be Mr. Monkeypants," Buffy replied. "Now shoo."

The three adults waited while Holly tucked her doll under her arm and carried her from the room, casting one last lingering look at the trio before slowly closing the door. As soon as they were alone, Spike looked sideways at Buffy.

"Mr. Monkeypants?" he drawled. "You can't be serious."

"Be thankful she didn't ask for you to be Mr. Pokey," Buffy said. "There's no way I could've kept a straight face for that one."

"I'd forgotten how sweet she is," Tara mused. Her eyes were still on the closed door, her face thoughtful.

"You forget how toxic she is, too?"

Spike's question brought the edge back to Buffy's mood, and she lifted her chin to stand with him against the intrusion of the ghost. "Yeah," she said. "You'd think that would've been a detail you guys could've been a little bit clearer on."

"I suppose I deserve that," Tara said. Her head tilted toward the kitchen table. "Are you sure you don't want to get more comfortable? Maybe finish getting your drink? I really do want to make this as easy for you as possible."

Maybe it was the soft way she spoke, or maybe it was the nervous twisting of Tara's hands, but Buffy's natural inclination to argue with the ghost seemed to wane with each word she uttered. Whatever it was, this one was a hell of a lot more congenial than Jenny been. "How come you haven't been the spokesghost all along?" she asked as she walked back to the table. She sat down and watched out of the corner of her eye as Spike returned to finishing his mug of blood. "I get why Doyle couldn't because he was bringing her here, but why Jenny instead of you?"

"Because you just saw me alive a few days ago," Tara replied. She didn't sit, but instead stood at the head of the table. "You really think you wouldn't have been weirded out by seeing me as a ghost?"

"Not any more than Jenny," Buffy said. "I thought she was the First."

"But you don't now."

The Slayer hesitated. "Let's just say, I'm a little more open to the topic of conversation than I was before," she said. "Holly can be very persuasive."

"Speaking of the little one…" Hopping up on the counter, Spike leveled narrowed eyes at their guest. "Why is it none of you lot told us about the blood thing? Almost lost Buffy there and all because nobody bothered to share that little detail."

"We didn't have reason to think her blood would be an issue," Tara said.

Buffy's eyes widened. "She's three! Are you really trying to tell us you didn't expect her to skin her knee or cut her finger or something?"

"It didn't occur to us," came the reply. "You have no idea how sorry we are about that now."

"What about the sleepwalking?"

Spike's inquisition was far from over. Buffy could feel the frustrated tension that had been such a frosty tenor in his being over the past few days, and knew he was struggling to keep from lashing out. She didn't even have to think. Rising from her seat, she took the step necessary to position herself between his legs, flashing him a reassuring smile before leaning against his chest and facing off with Tara as a joined front.

Tara's smile softened at the sight. "I missed this," she said, ignoring Spike's question. "_This_ was what I kept trying to get the others to see."

"What're you talking about?"

"You. The two of you. Like this. Maria doesn't stand a chance with you two working together."

The mention of Maria was all Buffy needed to stop dwelling on the casual manner in which Tara consolidated the two of them and get back to the matter at hand. There was enough going on for her to sort out when it came to Spike and the last thing she wanted right now was for it to be done publicly. Not before she got a chance to talk to him herself.

"Sleepwalking," she prompted. "You're avoiding the issue."

"No, I'm not. We thought it was a non-issue."

"She goes wandering around in the middle of the night! How is that a non-issue?"

"She also has two guardians looking over her, both of whom are extremely nocturnal. We assumed when you took over the responsibility of watching her, one of you would always be awake." The barbed accusations were drawing the good-humor out of Tara's face, and she visibly stopped to compose herself before continuing. "Look," she tried again, "this isn't why I'm here. We _know_ we made some mistakes. We should've been a little more upfront about some of Holly's…specialness. But that's why I'm here. To try and explain it a little better for you."

"Why now?" Buffy asked. "Why not in the beginning?"

"Because I was outvoted. They don't even know I'm here now."

The solemnity of her statement made Buffy stop. Behind her, Spike's hand absently stroked the line of her spine through her shirt, but she knew without having to look that he was just as affected by this young woman as she was. "Let's start from the top," Buffy said, deliberately softening her tone. "Beginning with how you can be involved in this when I just saw on campus a few weeks ago."

-----

It was hard to concentrate with Buffy between his legs.

Well, hard to concentrate on this Tara chit, at least. Spike wasn't having any problems concentrating on the glorious Slayer scents that were assaulting him or the possessive tilt of Buffy's head as she leaned it against his chest.

Those, however, had nothing to do with keeping the little one safe, and more than once, he had to wrench his attention away from daydreams of taking Buffy from behind at the kitchen counter to focus on Tara's words.

Starting with the time issue hadn't helped. Though he didn't recognize her, Spike quickly gathered that this was a friend of Willow's, someone Buffy knew only peripherally from the college campus, and that she'd been breathing and kicking just before they'd left for the Watcher's faux conference. When the Slayer questioned her on being a ghost, though, Tara smiled and nodded knowingly.

"I know it's confusing," she'd said. "But time doesn't have any meaning on this side of life. The Powers can be everywhere and everywhen, so those of us who continue to fight the good fight when we die follow many of the same rules. On your plane of existence, I won't die for a few more years yet."

"But…if you can just jump around in time, can't you just stop whatever it is that kills you?" his Slayer had asked.

"But I don't. Just jump around in time, like you say. I'm only involved in this time now because of my belief in you two. The Powers wanted warriors to protect Holly. I'm the one who pushed to have Spike here."

"But why? Spike didn't want to be here any more than I did."

He held his tongue when the instinct to argue with Buffy leapt to the fore. While what she said was technically true, it didn't encompass the depth of how he felt about the matter now. It was inconceivable for him to consider not having the past week with Buffy. How would he have gained the opportunity to get so close to her otherwise?

The look he shared with Tara told him that she, somehow, understood that.

"It couldn't just be one," Tara said, skirting the question. "A three-year-old is hard enough to handle without having the mystical going on as well. What if something had happened---?"

"Something did," Spike piped up.

"And you took care of it, just as I knew you would," she directed at him. "And don't try telling me that you haven't. We've been watching you. We know how much you've actually done. For Holly. For…each other."

There was no mistaking Tara's blush. Spike felt the rise in Buffy's body temperature as it dawned on her what the ghost was referring to, and tightened his grip, refusing to let her yield to the embarrassment he knew was shaking her resolve. "So, why are you here now?" Spike asked, eager for his Slayer to change the topic at hand. "If we haven't mucked anything up, why poke your nose in what doesn't concern you?"

"Because I thought you needed to know the truth. In light of Buffy's…encounter with Holly's blood, the more information you have regarding her situation, the better equipped you'll be to protect her."

And so the story unfolded, and in spite of Spike's rising misgivings, he listened without any more interruption.

"Holly's mother was a potential who was never called," Tara began. "Holly never knew her. She died in childbirth."

"Did…?" Buffy started, but the question refused to coalesce into anything more definitive, just hanging between the two women before the ghost slowly nodded.

"She doesn't know that," she said quietly. "She will _never_ know that. Holly will have a hard enough time in life without thinking her mother would be alive if it weren't for her."

The Slayer nodded in silent assent. There was an undercurrent of something more than vehemence in Tara's choice of words, but neither was willing to call her on it. Though she seemed perfectly harmless on the exterior, there was a tightly contained power in the young woman's demeanor that warned against interference.

"The Council was aware of Holly's uniqueness from the start, but it wasn't until Maria made her first attempt to kidnap her that they realized the gravity of the situation. They hid her away where they thought she'd be safe, in a remote part of Canada where they conducted training for potential slayers. Their reasoning was, that with so many skilled fighters around, she would be safe from Maria until the time passed when Holly wouldn't be usable in her plans any more. Unfortunately, they were wrong."

"What's Maria's connection to the Council?" Buffy asked.

Tara paused. "Familial," she finally replied. "Her sister was a Slayer."

"Then it must be revenge. She wants Holly because Holly has the ability to kill Slayers."

"Not quite. That's why Maria wants her, but that's not the motive."

"Then what is?"

"Jealousy. And greed. Maria's discovered a way to use Holly's blood to destroy the Slayer line and take the power for herself."

The room fell silent at the simple statement. The urge for Spike to squeeze Buffy close and physically stop anyone from trying to take her away from him was overwhelming, but he refrained from anything overt, choosing instead to run his fingers softly up and down her arm. Her muscles were taut in disbelief, though what Tara offered certainly made sense, and he knew she felt like lashing out. Only the fact that they were speaking to a non-corporeal being prevented her.

"Why are you telling me this now?" she demanded. "Why not come clean about this from the start?"

"There were fears you'd react…unpredictably," Tara said. "We didn't want it coloring the way you treated Holly." She took a step forward, her face earnest. "Buffy, she's just a little girl. An innocent. And she's already had such a hard life. Would you have acted the same way around her if you knew the truth? She doesn't need people being scared of her, or feeling sorry for her. She needs a family. She needs people who aren't going to treat her like a science experiment or the next apocalypse." She stopped, her eyes begging them to understand. "She needed you guys."

It took Buffy a long moment to respond. "That still doesn't clue me in on why the big show and tell now," she said, and the hollowness of her voice made Spike pull her in closer to his body.

"We've found Maria---."

"Then it's over!"

Tara shook her head. "No, we've only located her. Her magic is too strong for us to get past. It won't be over until New Year's Day. Holly will be four then, and it'll be too late for Maria to do the ritual."

"Then why---?"

"Because of a lot of things that have happened that none of us could have predicted," Tara answered. She seemed to be steadying herself for the next. "There's no way you could've known this, but your mother was looking for you, Buffy. Giles called her and---."

"Giles is alive? You've found him?"

The constant interruptions were beginning to wear thin, and Spike leaned in to whisper in Buffy's ear, "Let her tell the story, luv."

Tara simply nodded, as if his aid was entirely expected. "He's alive," she confirmed. "Maria has him." Quickly, she outlined how Giles had contacted Joyce, the pretenses he'd used to rouse her suspicions, and how Mrs. Summers had then taken it upon herself to search for Buffy on her own. When Buffy heard how close Joyce had actually been, her mouth opened to pose another question, but then closed again when Spike tightened his arms around her.

"This is the part where I need you to not get upset," Tara said, when she'd finished.

"Well, now that was just dumb," Spike commented with a wry cock of his brow. "Tellin' the Slayer not to get riled is usually the surest path for that to happen."

"I mean it," the young woman pressed. "There's _nothing_ you can do at this point. Right now, it's all in your mother's hands."

"_What's_ in my mother's hands?"

"She wanted to help. We didn't want her coming here because then you'd only start worrying about protecting her, too, so we tried to get her to go back to Sunnydale and wait for this to be over. But she wouldn't. And when the assassin Maria sent after her---."

"Whoa. Back up. Assassin? This Maria bitch tried to kill my mother?"

"We don't know why. But then Mrs. Summers got it into her head that she could help from the inside, and we couldn't talk her out of it, and the next thing you know, Doyle and Jenny are helping with the magic to get her inside Maria's house---."

"She's _where_?"

There was no way Spike was going to hold the Slayer back on this one, and he just watched as she wrenched from his grasp to stand nose to nose with the ghost. The color had blanched from her cheeks, her hands balled into fists at her sides, and she was using every ounce of her self-control not to draw Holly's attention from the other room.

"You did _not_," she said in a low voice, her jaw nearly clenched from her constraint, "tell me that my mother is now in the house of the same woman who's trying to kill that little girl."

"It wasn't my idea. We couldn't stop her. All we could do was help as best we could. You have to understand that."

"I _understand_ that you've been holding out on me from the start," Buffy continued. "And I _understand_ that you probably expect me to fix everything you guys have screwed up. What I _don't_ understand is how you could let my mother get put into such danger when she doesn't have anything to do with all of this!"

"She chose her own path, Buffy. In case you haven't noticed, your mother is a little strong-willed. And it's not like I could step in front of her to physically stop her from going. She would've just walked straight through me. Doyle got all the corporeal mojo for this, remember?"

The mild attempt at humor fizzled disastrously, but Spike could see the point the gentle ghost was trying to make. "You forget this is the same woman who knocked me out with an axe to protect you, luv," he said. "Your mum's fierce when it comes to you. This doesn't surprise me in the least."

She whirled, eager to redirect her pent-up anger on something a little more solid. "What do you know about my mom?" she hissed. "A little hot chocolate and you think you're bosom buddies?"

Hopping down from the counter, Spike closed the gap between them. "Don't have to know her," he said. "I know _you_. And not all of that piss and vinegar comes from bein' the Slayer. You get that backbone from your mum, and if she thinks she can handle herself, then I'm inclined to believe her. Just like I'd be inclined to back you up if you decided to go waltzing into the lion's den."

"Oh, get over yourself, Spike. If you thought I was in any danger, you'd be the first one to try and tuck me back into my bed. That's what you've been doing all week, remember?"

The muscles in his cheek twitched as he fought not to lose his temper. "That's different," he said. "You were hurt. I was just makin' sure you didn't make it worse, is all."

"My mom doesn't have super Slayer strength, or magical powers, or anything that's going to help her if Maria decides to take a hands-on approach to killing her."

"She's got her wits. Counts for a lot."

"Try telling that to the pointy end of a sword when it's aimed at your heart."

He shook his head, tired of the word games. "Just bloody do it and get it out of your system, Slayer," he growled.

"Do what?"

"Hit me. You're itchin' to, and it'll make you feel better. Just do it and get it over with so we can get back to sorting out this mess." He lifted his chin in preparation for the blow, but his gaze never left hers.

The blunt request stunned Buffy into silence, and she took a step away from him, disbelief shining in the green of her eyes. Behind her, Tara sighed, finally stepping forward to intervene in their discussion.

"You two just never take the easy way, do you?" she commented.

But Buffy ignored her, her attention still trained on Spike.

"I'm not like that," she said, more to herself than to anyone in the room. "I don't hit people I---." Then, she stopped, as if a memory chose that moment to make itself known, and her skin paled even more.

"It's all right, luv," he said, and this time, his tone was gentler. "I know what you need, and it's all right."

"No, no, it's not." And with that, she pivoted on her heel and ran from the cabin.

The slamming of the front door was followed almost immediately by the bedroom door being opened and Holly poking her head out between the crack. "Can I come out now?" she asked in a small voice.

Spike growled as he marched to where his and Buffy's coats were draped over a chair, snatching them up before continuing on to the front entrance.

"Spike!" Tara's voice made him glance back, his hand poised over the knob. "You can't follow her. It's still daytime out there."

For a moment, he considered her words, his gaze sliding to where Holly watched him in wide-eyed expectation. His Slayer was hurting, and to top it all off, she'd run out without her coat again, and bugger if he was going to just stand back and let her suffer when he could do something about it.

"Then I guess I'll be yellin' at her from the porch," he announced, and yanked the door open, his final words just barely trailing back inside. "Always knew the bitch would be the death of me anyway."

To be continued in Chapter 40: As Long As You Love Me So…


	40. As Long As You Love Me So

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Tara has filled Buffy and Spike in on some of the specifics regarding Maria, culminating in the truth about Joyce coming out, which prompted Buffy to fly off the handle and storm from the cabin…

-----

She made it easy for him.

Ready to yell his lungs out for her to get her ass back to the house, Spike skidded to a halt when he saw Buffy leaning over the porch railing, staring into the thick of the forest. The closing of the front door prompted her to glance back, and he silently held out her coat, searching her pinched face for some hint of what was going on inside her head as she took it.

"Thanks," she muttered, slipping into the jacket.

Sunlight streaming over the rail forced Spike to hug the wall of the cabin, but he walked as far he could to the side so that he could better see Buffy's face. "So you know, offer still stands," he said slowly.

If it was possible, her muscles clenched even tighter. "I'm not going to hit you, Spike."

"Least admit you want to."

"Why? So you can get some sick, vampire idea of foreplay out of the way for later?"

"You haven't complained about my idea of foreplay yet."

Her head fell forward, her brow resting on her forearms. It effectively hid her face from his view, but he took the fact that she wasn't running even further away as a good sign.

"Just…go back inside, Spike. I'm not really in the mood to talk right now."

"Which is exactly why you should be hitting something. Or fucking something. Something bein' me, of course. Either way, you get it out of your system and we get back to helpin' the little one, which is what this whole shindig is s'posed to be about, right?"

"And you became child advocate of the year when?"

"When the three ghostly stooges co-opted us for parent duty, remember?" His eyes slid upward, assessing the path of the sunlight and noting the line of demarcation across Buffy's shoulders. Resuming a place directly behind her, Spike reached forward and slipped his hand beneath the bottom hem of her coat, finding the soft skin of the small of her back and stroking it in slow, soothing circles. As long as she didn't move, he wouldn't burn.

"Know you're worried about your mum," he said, his voice a caress to work in conjunction with his touch. "Can't say that I blame you---."

Her snort of derision cut him off. "Way to jump that fence, Spike," Buffy said. "Does that come with a side order of whiplash from changing your mind so fast?"

"What're you nattering on about?"

Pulling away from his hand, she twisted around so that she could hop up on the rail, facing him but just beyond his reach again. "It's just you made it pretty clear you were on Tara's side in there," she replied. "And now you're pulling the understanding act? How gullible do you think I am?"

"That's not what I meant."

"That's what you said."

"I _said_---."

"I heard you the first time. Not really interested in the encore."

"So you run off with your tail tucked between your legs? Since when is that your style, Slayer?"

"I didn't run off!"

"And that door just slammed itself after your ass went tearing through it. Right."

"Tell me, _why_ exactly did you follow me?"

The fury that had bubbled inside was back, making her eyes flash. Spike could see Buffy's hands balled into fists inside her coat pockets, but he kept the air of insolent nonchalance that was brassing her off so much. Maybe if he pushed her hard enough, she'd lash out at him and get it out of her system. She wasn't thinking straight with so much tension winding through her muscles. Obviously, the soft and understanding approach wasn't working.

"Because you're the most infuriating, pig-headed, parochial bitch I've ever had the misfortune for caring about, that's why."

Confusion made her hesitate, but it didn't lessen the sharpness of her tone when she spoke again. "What the hell does Catholic school have to do with anything?"

He rolled his eyes. "Remind me to buy you a dictionary for your next birthday," Spike commented dryly. "Just meant, you've got this uncanny knack for seeing only two inches in front of your face. I thought letting me in might've opened your eyes a mite, but I guess I was mistaken."

"Don't you dare tell me I don't have a right to be pissed off. They put my mother in _danger_, Spike. And they put me in a place where I can't do anything about it. How am I supposed to feel?"

"First off, _they_ didn't do anything. _They_ tried stoppin' her, but I guess you were too busy seein' red at that point to actually _hear_ what that Tara was sayin'."

"They should've tried harder."

"Do you even _know_ your mum, Buffy? She gets something in her head and there's no shakin' it. Hell, I've only had the two or three conversations with her and _I_ know that. How is it her own flesh and blood doesn't? Are you really _that_ daft?"

She looked as if he'd slapped her, and for a second, Spike wished he hadn't taken this route to try and snap her from her anger. He was wishing it even harder when she said, "I guess believing we were a team now makes me even dumber, huh? My bad. Somehow I thought that you thinking you're in love with me meant you might actually care about me and my feelings."

She might as well have hit him; it would've hurt a helluva lot less. "Heard that then," he said slowly, his mood deflating as he stilled in his protestations. Fuck. This wasn't how he'd envisioned this conversation happening. He had to salvage it in some way. "Look, lemme explain---."

"I'm tired of explanations," Buffy interrupted. "Because apparently words don't mean anything to you. If they did, you wouldn't be whispering them when you think I can't hear and you wouldn't be tuning me out when I try to tell you how all this business makes me feel. So you can just keep your explanation. I'm not interested."

His lips pressed together, and before she could move, Spike's hand shot out into the deadly sunshine to curl around her arm and yank her off the railing, onto her feet and against his chest. His fingers smoked from their brief contact with the light, but he didn't lessen his grip, instead bringing his other hand up to keep her in place before him.

"You want me to say it in the light of day?" he asked. "Is that it? Fine. I love you, Buffy. And if I didn't tell you earlier, it's because I didn't know how you'd take it. Vampire and Slayer? Not exactly the natural order of things, is it? Not to mention all the lovely, sordid details of our pasts conspiring against us. Like me tryin' to kill you. You tryin' to kill me. Your teenybopper plan to share Romeo and bloody Juliet medal of honor with the Grand Poof. You couldn't even stand the sight of me before we got holed up here. Tell me how any of that would make me think you'd even _want_ to hear how I feel. You can't blame me for keeping my gob shut."

She wasn't struggling against him, but she wasn't helping him, either. "If you loved me, you wouldn't be going against me on this," Buffy said.

"Are you kidding? It's _because_ I love you that I'm tryin' to get you to see the other side of the coin. The only people you've got against you are the ghosts _you're_ putting there, pet. And just so we're clear, I'm talkin' about metaphorical ghosts, not the…" He jerked his head toward the closed front door of the cabin. "…real ones."

"You think I'm being stupid for worrying about my mom," she whispered. Her eyes were shiny, like she was fighting whatever emotions were welling inside, but it felt to Spike that his words were finally starting to get through to her.

"Never said that, luv," he said softly. His thumbs began massaging reassuring circles into her arms where he held her, and he felt the muscles slowly begin to unwind. "Just don't think it's worth expending the energy to get pissed off about it when there's not a lick we can do until we get out of here."

"I can't think that. I have to help her."

"So tell me how you do that when you can't get outside the invisible wonderwall." Her eyes fell from his. They both knew he was right about that particular point, but she was too stubborn to admit it out loud. Spike released his left hand, using his index finger to gently tip her head back so that he could see her eyes again. "You give me one workable plan on how we can go rescue Joyce---hell, give me a _half_-workable plan, and I'll be there. At your side, marching 'til the saints cut my bloody feet off. But…I just don't see it, luv. Granted, planning's not exactly my strong suit---."

The last brought the first smile he'd seen on her face since Tara's arrival, though perhaps it qualified as more of a bemused smirk than anything else. "We're pretty much screwed if we ever have to use our brains for anything, huh?" Buffy joked half-heartedly.

"Then I guess it's a good thing we're both strong and good-looking," he replied.

Her smile faded, and tentatively, the Slayer leaned forward to press her cheek against his chest. Taking the edges of his duster, Spike wrapped it around both of them and held her close, brushing his lips across the top of her hair as he let himself fall back into the seductive rhythm of her pulse, the slow and even undertow that would drown him if he allowed it.

"Don't ask me to hit you again." It was a whisper against his tee, muffled by the cotton, but there was no mistaking the earnestness in her tone.

"I just---."

"I know what you were doing." Pulling back, Buffy looked at him, her eyes dark. "That's what punching bags are for."

"In case you hadn't noticed, we're a little short of those at the moment, pet. And I didn't mind." He grinned. "I know you can make it hurt in all the good ways."

"You don't hit people you love," she asserted. "I don't care what way you try to spin it, it's not right."

"That's not…" Spike's voice trailed off as her words sunk in. Slowly, he tilted his head. "Love?" he quizzed.

Buffy flushed. "You know what I mean."

"Know what you said. Just wondering if that's really what you mean."

"Did you mean it when you said it to me?"

"Course, I did."

"So…?"

A smile, warmer and more real than any he could remember in recent history, curved Spike's lips. "Didn't say it for you to say it back, Buffy."

"Well, that's pretty obvious considering you thought I was asleep the first time you did." But she said it jokingly, traces of her good humor returning.

"But then, technically, you _haven't_ said it back, so guess I'm still up on the points there."

"There's points now?"

"Would you rather there was kissing?"

"We just had a huge fight, Spike. Why would I be in the mood to want to kiss you?"

"Because I'm so good at it?"

"Ha ha. You're a funny vamp. As in not."

"Because _you're_ so good at it?"

"I'm being serious."

"So am I."

"Spike---."

"Shut up, Slayer."

-----

Through the crack in curtains, Tara could see the bow of Spike's back as he kissed Buffy on the porch, but it was the small child who had run to the window to watch as soon as the vampire had left the cabin that made her smile. Holly's hands were pressed flat to the glass as she knelt on the small table before the window, her attention rapt, a small smile of satisfaction curling her mouth. She'd witnessed the entire exchange, but it was only now that they were kissing that she was starting to relax.

"It's not nice to eavesdrop," Tara chided gently.

"It's not eavesdropping 'cause I can't hear them any more," Holly replied. "Nobody's yelling."

"It's still not nice."

Holly sighed and turned around to sit on the table. Her legs dangled over the edge and she began to swing them distractedly. "Spike loves Buffy," she announced.

"I know."

"They kiss a lot, but they don't know that I know."

"And you know what?" Tara leaned in and mock-whispered. "They never really get over that."

The little girl giggled and twisted to look out the window again. "They're still kissing," she announced. "I wish they'd come back in so we can play puppets again. Buffy says Spike is really good with socks."

Tara sighed. "I think they're going to want to talk some more, sweetie. They might be done yelling at each other, but something tells me they're not quite done yelling at me yet."

"Keep 'em kissing. They don't yell when they kiss."

All of a sudden, Holly jumped from the table, racing for the couch and scrambling to sit on top of it. A second after she was settled, the front door opened and Buffy entered, followed closely by a grinning Spike. The flush on the Slayer's cheeks was from more than the cold, Tara realized, and kept her bemused grin to herself as Holly pretended to be surprised by the newly arrived pair.

"Right," Spike announced, dropping his coat haphazardly to a nearby chair and sauntering to where his now-cold mug of blood sat on the kitchen counter. "Now where were we?"

-----

She'd given up on pounding on the door. As annoyed as she was to be locked in her own room, Joyce was smart enough to recognize a futile gesture when she saw it, and instead set to figuring out everything she could about her new prison. Every corner of her room was searched, but outside of the scary dust bunny that had lurked beneath the bed, it was completely innocuous. Just a normal guest room that had been left empty for a month too long. That left only the window, and it was there Joyce currently sat, staring out at the snow-covered lawn, wondering just what she was going to do next.

Noon had come and gone, and her stomach was growling in protest. She didn't think Maria was going to starve her into submission, but when she glanced at her watch and saw the hour creep past four, Joyce felt her heart begin to sink. Maybe she'd underestimated the other woman's resolve. Maybe it was meant to be a slow death, where the demon would've been quick. Maybe---.

Her eye caught the latch on the window, and she frowned when she saw the simple mechanism. Unlike the door, it didn't have a lock that required a key. It was just a sliding bolt that kept the window closed, with a single pane of heavy glass instead of double glazing. Leaning forward, Joyce examined the slope of the porch roof just outside, tilting her head to see it disappearing around the side of the building. She was on the second floor, and it was impossible to see what was directly beneath, but, with careful manipulation, the near level angle of the tile just beneath the sill could support her long enough to get to another room that wouldn't be locked.

First thing, though, was to check if the window even opened. And if it did, make sure no alarms went off.

It stuck for the briefest of seconds and then flew upward, the glass rattling as the wooden edge slammed into the top of the frame. Joyce froze as she waited for a response, but when none came, she took a step back to compose herself.

OK, you can do this, she thought. You're fit, you're smart, and let's face it, you're desperate.

_Emphasis on desperate._

Her hands white-knuckled the sill as she lifted one leg and stuck it outside. The night was already beginning to settle in, carrying with it the sharp edge of winter cold, but adrenaline was keeping her warm, fuelling her to swing the other leg until she was sitting on the sill itself.

Joyce took a deep breath.

_Buffy does this all the time. Buffy can do this blindfolded and in her sleep._

But the little voice whispered back, _Buffy's nineteen and you're _not.

Contrary to discouraging her, though, the reminder of her age hardened Joyce's resolve. Twisting just enough to grab the gutter that lined the edge of the roof above her, she pulled herself up to a standing position. For a moment, the world was fine, but as she put her feet down more solidly, her heel slipped on an unseen patch of ice.

The metal eaves cut into her palms as she scrabbled not to slide. Her hip slammed into the hard edge of the open window, and pain shot down Joyce's pelvis into her legs, causing her to bite down on her cheek to keep from crying out. It took a solid thirty seconds but finally, her footing was surer, and while her breathing now resembled something that should've belonged to an out-of-shape marathoner, she was at least vertical and ready to try moving again.

Her room was at the end of a hall, so Joyce knew she had two options. Take the short path around the corner of the house and risk what she might find, or take the longer path down the front of the house and hope she didn't go stumbling into Maria's private bedroom.

The longer path won.

Inch by inch, she stepped along the roof, keeping her eyes forward and her thoughts away from the ground that she knew was impossibly far away. After too long, she felt the wall disappear from in front of her legs, she glanced down to see the window she'd found and exhaled loudly. Thank god. She couldn't keep this up for much longer. Her muscles were screaming in protest.

Only problem was, the window was locked.

She hadn't thought about that. It was entirely possible that all the windows were going to be locked and Joyce would've expended all this energy on a fruitless plan. She'd end up back in her room, cold, exhausted, and even more at Maria's mercy should the woman decide to make a move, and what good would that do her?

On the other hand, she wouldn't know if she didn't try. Just because one window was shut to her didn't mean they all were.

But the next one was.

And the one after that.

She had to go around the corner of the house before she found one where the frame would budge.

Her fingers were numb as she tugged at the wood, and she couldn't feel her toes inside her shoes. But when the glass moved out of her way and she felt the blast of warm air hit her cheeks, Joyce almost sighed in relief as she tumbled inside.

Immediately, she saw a pair of men's shined shoes, and her gaze traveled upward until she was staring into the gaunt face of a rather startled looking young man.

"Hi," she said weakly, and then felt the black curtain of unconsciousness draw over her eyes.

To be continued in Chapter 41: Go Tell It on the Mountain…


	41. Go Tell It on the Mountain

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Spike have confessed their feelings---in a way---to each other and returned to the cabin to finish talking to Tara, while Joyce has decided to take matters into her own hands and escape out her window, only to pass out in the first room she manages to get into…

-----

She needed to seriously start reconsidering all the passing out she'd been doing lately. All it did was leave her with a headache.

Joyce groaned before she opened her eyes, her hand lifting to rub at her temple. Had she hit her head when she'd come through the window? She didn't remember. All she remembered was tumbling in and seeing a scarecrow of a young man staring at her in shock.

"Joyce? Joyce, are you all right?"

That wasn't the scarecrow's voice. She _knew_ that speaker. Did she actually get something right for a change?

Carefully, she slitted her eyelids, the light in the room blinding. A dark shadow hovered above her and she could spy another one just behind him, but she was fairly certain she knew who it was who was gazing down at her so intently.

Her eyes drifted shut again. "Please tell me you're Rupert and that this isn't just wishful thinking on my part," she murmured.

A soft chuckle was preceded by the faint shuffling of feet. "Well, she didn't hit her head," she heard Giles say.

"What are we going to do?" This was the other person in the room speaking. She wondered if it was the scarecrow. "She was trying to escape!"

"Can you blame me?" Joyce intervened. She opened her eyes again and met the gazes of the two men. "I was being held prisoner. I think Maria was planning on starving me into submission. Ethiopian hunger strike is not a good look for me."

Rupert smiled at her small joke, but the young man with him looked stricken. "Maria wouldn't do that," he said, too quickly.

"Like she wouldn't place us under surveillance?" Giles commented. He shook his head. "I'm afraid this only confirms our original hypothesis regarding our hostess. Frankly, I'm not that surprised."

Struggling to sit up, Joyce was immediately assisted by Rupert's strong arm sliding around her back, guiding her to lean against the head of the bed upon which she'd been reclining. She was in a bedroom much like hers, but there were masculine touches that attested to its owner. The young man, she presumed, since he had been the only one present when she'd entered.

She stuck her hand out and smiled. "I'm Joyce Summers," she said.

He took it, but the clamminess of his palm betrayed his rampant nerves. "Paul McCallister," he replied. "It's an honor to meet the Slayer's mother."

Her brows lifted at his admission and she immediately turned to look at Giles. His shrug was almost embarrassed.

"I'm afraid Buffy's status is well-known in this particular household," he said. "It's part of why exactly I'm here."

"That makes sense," she said, nodding. "Maria's looking for the little girl Buffy is protecting."

Both men were stunned into silence. "What…exactly…did you say?" Giles finally asked.

They were looking at her like she was from a different planet. "I was told Buffy and Spike are protecting the girl Maria is trying to get her hands on."

The silence didn't last. Her announcement made both men start speaking simultaneously.

"Why is Spike involved in this?"

"If you know where Maria's daughter is---."

"…and Buffy hasn't staked him yet?"

"…we must tell Silas. We can stop the searching…"

"…who on earth told you all this?"

She cut them off with a frustrated wave of her hands. "My head hurts enough without trying to filter you two," Joyce complained. "Let's do this one at a time. Rupert goes first."

The first question out of his mouth proved to her just how much he cared for her daughter. "Does this mean Buffy's all right? She didn't suffer any ill effects from the accident?"

"As far as I can tell, she's fine. I haven't exactly seen her---."

"What? But you know---."

She sighed. "All right, question and answer isn't keeping me from getting interrupted, so let's try it this way. You two don't say a word, and I'll explain everything that's happened since I left Sunnydale."

-----

True to her request, both men were silent while Joyce spoke, though the quiet that ensued afterward was a trifle too heavy and lasted at least a minute too long. Finally, she rolled her eyes and said, "I _know_ you have an opinion on this, Rupert. Voicing it today is probably a good idea."

His eyes were narrowed as he regarded her, but when he readied himself to speak, Giles surprised Joyce by turning to young Paul instead. "We should've stuck to our guns."

"And what?" Paul countered. "It made perfect sense. We did what we had to do. I don't regret a single moment."

Giles only looked at him over the rim of his glasses, forcing a flush to rise to the younger man's cheeks.

"You know my story now. What's the two of yours?" Joyce asked.

"Three," Paul said absently.

She frowned. "Don't tell me there's another ghost."

"There's not," Giles replied. "Silas is likely still in his quarters."

"Who's Silas?"

"Another Watcher Maria brought in."

It was like watching a tennis match. "Then why isn't he here? If there's three of you, why would Paul only go get you when I showed up? Is there something about this Silas I should know about?"

The two men exchanged a quick look before either spoke. "Silas' loyalties have been…questionable," Giles said. "Paul did the wise thing in leaving him out of this at the moment."

"You still haven't told me why Maria kidnapped you, though. I assume it has something to do with the girl Buffy's protecting?"

Paul nodded. "We've been searching for her. She needed us to locate Holly before she conducted the spell that would destroy the Slayer line."

Joyce folded her arms over her chest. "The girl is _three_," she said slowly. "Did either of you truly believe that a _pre-schooler_ could be responsible for something that dangerous?" Their silence was damning, prompting her to sigh deeply. "You didn't know, did you?"

"We assumed she was an adult," Paul protested. "Maria claimed she was her daughter."

"Didn't you think to ask?"

"In all fairness, Joyce, I'm fairly certain Maria would've lied to us about Holly's age," Giles said. "She was more than willing to bend the truth on other details. It stands to reason she would've said whatever we needed to hear in order to follow through on her requests."

"Doyle told me that _Maria_ was the one who actually wants to destroy the Slayer line." She'd deliberately only mentioned the lone ghost. Tara had warned about her involvement with Willow, and Joyce couldn't help but feel that any mention of Jenny would distract Giles too greatly from the issue at hand. Let him think it was just the one do-gooder ghost for now.

"That would hold with what we discovered," Giles mused.

Paul's skin had become mottled, his throat working convulsively as he seemed to be fighting some inner agitation. "We were duped?" he whispered, and in that instant, Joyce felt a flash of pity for the young man, even if she wasn't aware of the particulars. "It was all just…she _used_ us?"

Gently, Giles set his hand on the younger man's shoulder and nodded. "She used _all _of us," he reassured. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

He nodded, but his thoughts were clearly running elsewhere. "We mustn't stay then," Paul began to babble. "She'll know. She'll learn of Mrs. Summers' escape, and she'll punish us. "We have to---ow!"

As he twisted away from Giles' grip, Joyce saw the white of her friend's fingertips where he'd tightened his hold on Paul's shoulder. "Focus," she heard him order, his voice suddenly cold. "If we don't maintain our wits at this point, Maria will still win."

Joyce rose to her feet and placed herself between the two men. "Not that I don't agree with you," she said to Rupert, "but I also agree with Paul. I met Maria, and in my opinion, the woman's psychotic. As soon as she finds out I'm not in my room, she's going to start looking for me. The only chance I have at this point is to make my escape real. And if I'm going, you can be sure as hell I'm taking you with me." She glanced back at the red face of the younger Watcher. "You, too."

Giles shook his head. "It's almost tea time," he said. "She'll be expecting us. You'll have to go back to your room and wait until after we've eaten. It'll be the only way for us to delay her suspicion."

"That's all well and good for you," she said, exasperated, "but my door is locked. The only way for me to get back in is the way I got out, and I am _not_ doing that again."

"We don't have any choice---."

"We have every choice," Joyce countered. "If we get out now, we have the cover of darkness on our side. I know the general vicinity Buffy's in. Between the three of us, we can find her and help her protect that little girl until the New Year."

"And how do you plan on getting there? If you don't even want to go out on a ledge, I can hardly see you walking through the dead of winter to where Buffy's at."

"Doyle and I left the car we brought where I could get to it if I had to. It's only a mile from here."

"Provided Maria hasn't found it yet."

For the first time since Giles had hurt his shoulder, Paul stepped forward and spoke up. "I like Mrs. Summers' plan," he said. "If we're voting, I vote for hers."

"Nobody asked you, Paul," he growled.

"That's awfully dictatorial of you, Rupert," Joyce said with a raised eyebrow.

His blue eyes flickered between the two, not even the shiny lenses of his glasses hiding an iota of his frustration. "It's suicide," Giles finally said.

"It's our only hope." Joyce smiled. "It's Christmas, Rupert. Miracles are always supposed to happen this time of year."

-----

By the time Tara left the cabin, Buffy was starting to think that maybe things might not be so bad after all.

Part of it was the calming effect the ghost had when she spoke. Once she'd let go of some of her initial anger at the situation and actually _listened_ to Tara like Spike suggested, Buffy found herself being drawn into the quiet way she wove her words, feeling the assurance and kindness as closely as if she'd been wrapped in an electric blanket. Plus, it didn't hurt when she heard her explain in greater detail about how exactly Joyce had been armed for her planned invasion. _That_ loosened some of the knots that had formed when the subject had originally been brought up.

Part of it, too, was Spike. It wasn't that she was distracted from the luscious memories of making out with him on the porch---and she so was going to have a talk with a certain little girl about spying on grown-ups; did she really think the flicking of the curtains wouldn't be noticed?---but more the feather touch of his hand on her back, a soothing reminder that he was there, that he was right behind her, and that all she had to do to draw on his strength was turn around. He'd surprised her by admitting to his feelings aloud. When she'd confronted him, she'd fully expected to go through a round of denial and argument; it was the only reaction that made sense considering he didn't have the guts to say it to her face the first time.

But she understood now that it wasn't that he hadn't been afraid. It was just that it had taken him by just as much surprise as it had taken her.

She loved him.

Buffy loved Spike.

Spike loved Buffy.

God, it sounded like some cheesy spin-off of a sitcom, didn't it?

She hadn't said it out loud yet, of course. Somehow, twisting her tongue around the actual words made her stomach flutter with a thousand ADHD butterflies on speed. It was easier to play along with his banter and let Spike know that way. It made it just as true, not to mention being more fun. And the kissing? Definite bonus. Evil or not-so-evil, there was no denying the fact that Spike knew his way around a kiss.

She smiled, stealing a glance out of the corner of her eye to watch Spike sprawled on the living room floor with socks over his hands. His kissing prowess was probably one detail she should omit in her grand plan to sell the idea of her and Spike to the Scoobies when she got back. She didn't think Xander would be too interested in knowing the dozens of things Spike could do with his tongue.

At least, she hoped he wouldn't be too interested.

And the sudden images that popped into her brain made her flush beet-red, sending her scurrying back to the stove to stir the soup before a certain vampire noticed the change in her body temperature.

Once Tara had said her goodbyes, Buffy had set to fixing something to eat for herself and Holly, good-naturedly ordering Spike to put in his time in entertaining the little girl while she did so. The glint in his eye made promises about how he'd be putting his time in with _her _later, but she'd refrained from responding to it, the sly smile Holly seemed incapable of wiping from her face telling Buffy that the child had seen far too much as it was.

There was no plan in place---well, no _new_ plan, that is. The old plan of protecting Holly from psychos wanting to use her as some sort of ritual sacrifice was still on the bandwagon. Tara had been firm in her statements regarding the barriers that kept them enclosed, so short of sending the child out to rescue Buffy's mom, Buffy really was stuck until after the New Year. Logic bit the big one sometimes. She could only hope that her mother would be smart enough not to do anything stupid that would get herself killed.

On the plus side, it meant more time to spend with Spike. She stole another look, and blushed when she caught him watching her, completely ignoring the way Holly was babbling away about "Mr. Monkeypants and his best friend, Pookie."

"Dinner's ready," she announced, her voice too loud and way too cheerful. Yuck. She sounded like Mrs. Cleaver.

Turning her back to the room, Buffy ladled the soup into bowls, setting aside the saucepan to turn to the other that contained Spike's warmed blood. As she grabbed the handle, though, his hand appeared from nowhere, curling around hers and guiding it to the mug that waited.

"I can do that," she muttered. But she didn't pull away, glorying in the cool velvet of his fingers encasing hers, the slight press of his hard body as he leaned into hers. She watched, transfixed, as together they poured the fluid, and then shivered when his mouth suddenly appeared at her ear.

"Think so much excitement for the day has earned us an early night?" Spike whispered.

"We don't have early nights," she replied. It shocked her how normal her voice sounded when her insides were quivering in anticipation of what Spike was so clearly promising.

"Pidge does." His teeth caught the delicate shell of her ear and nipped before he disappeared from his vantage behind Buffy. When she turned with the bowls in her hands, he was already straddling his chair at the head of the table, Holly sitting expectantly in her own seat.

"My tummy needs a drink," she announced.

"Soup's a drink," Spike offered.

Holly wrinkled her nose. "Soup's food."

"Do you want some water?" Buffy asked, turning back to the sink.

"Now, hang on a bit," Spike said. He leaned in toward the child, tilting his mug slightly so that she could see the viscous fluid clinging to its interior. "Do you think mine is food or a drink?"

"Food."

"But it's in a cup."

"But it's food."

"But I'm drinkin' it." He took a long swig to prove his point. "So it must be a drink."

She shook her head. "Nope. Food."

With a smile, Buffy set the glass of water down in front of Holly before sliding into her seat. "Give it up, Spike," she said. "I don't think this is one you're going to win."

"But Pidge here isn't bein' reasonable," he argued, good-naturedly.

"Am so."

"Are not."

"Are so."

"Are not."

"Now I _know_ you're not going to win," Buffy said. "Any time the are not's start showing their faces, it's pretty much a losing battle. Trust the one who was actually a kid in this century, Spike."

Scowling, he picked up his mug and drained the rest of the blood, grumbling under his breath about estrogen levels being far too high in the small house. Buffy and Holly smiled as they settled in to eat, but when the little girl began yawning widely halfway through the meal, Spike finally seemed to snap out of his funk.

"Not tired, are you, moptop?"

It was all Buffy could do not to roll her eyes at the obvious expectation in his voice.

The response was another yawn. "I think I need to have an early night," Holly announced. She immediately stood and began padding for the bedroom door. "Buffy can tuck me in."

When it was just the two of them left in the room, Buffy and Spike exchanged a quick look. "I think we've been had," she said, rising from her seat.

"You see me complainin'?" A broad smile creased his features and he sprawled back in the chair, giving her a birdseye view of the prominent outline of his cock beneath his jeans. "Sooner she goes to sleep, sooner you and me can get back to our little conversation on the front porch."

Her body burned at the sudden onslaught of memory his words evoked, and Buffy heard him chuckle as she turned away. It might be an early night for Holly, she thought, hurrying to the bedroom, but something told her it was going to be a long one for her.

To be continued in Chapter 42: Oh, Dear Santa, Fill It Well…


	42. Oh, Dear Santa, Fill It Well

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce, Paul, and Giles are going to escape Maria's stronghold, while Buffy and Spike are about to spend a quiet evening together, post-declaration…

-----

Holly was already stripped to her underpants by the time Buffy entered the bedroom, her back pale as she bent over the drawer that held her clothing. "Got it!" she announced triumphantly, and pulled out her nightgown with a broad smile.

"Awfully eager to go to bed, aren't you?" Buffy said. She knelt to help the child get dressed, and pulled the hem down once the gown was over Holly's head. "Have you been possessed by a sleep demon or something?"

The smile was gone by the time the small face reappeared, and her eyes were large and solemn. "I don't like fighting," she said.

Gently, Buffy pushed a stray strand of hair away from Holly's cheek. "Spike and I aren't fighting. There's no reason for you to be worried about that."

"But you were."

"And now we're not." She was thrown off-balance for a moment when Holly lunged forward, tightening her tiny arms around Buffy's neck. Instinctively, Buffy returned the hug, patting her back as soothingly as she could manage. "You shouldn't have been spying on us through the curtains," she said. "That was grown-up stuff."

"OK."

"And no more worrying. Spike and I are going to be fine." Pulling back, Buffy smiled, and then a split second later, realized she'd uttered the same words she'd heard from her mother so often before the divorce. Her smile faltered, but Holly had already disengaged from the embrace, scrambling for the foot of the bed and crawling into place at its head, eyes glowing from the moonlight that streamed in through the window.

"I don't need a story tonight," she announced. There was another wide yawn that made the child's jaw audibly crack, and then she was burrowing beneath the blankets, watching Buffy expectantly.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. G'night. Tell Spike g'night for me?"

"I will. Good night."

She drew the curtains before leaving the room, but Buffy glanced back one more time as she hesitated in the doorway. Holly's eyes were shut, and though Buffy had no doubts that the little girl was still wide awake, the memory of how many times she'd done nearly the same thing when she was younger, how she'd disappeared to her bedroom in hopes that privacy would be just what her mom and dad needed to sort out their differences, was enough to weigh down the good mood that had prevailed at the dinner table. With a small sigh, she closed the door.

The table had been cleared, the dishes stacked in the sink, but Spike was no longer seated. Instead, he stood at the fireplace, one hand on the mantle as he stared down into the flames, a bag of marshmallows dangling loosely from his other.

"Holly says good night," Buffy said softly. She didn't move from her vantage point. The black and white etching of his body against the orange made him seem more tangible all of a sudden, and her fingertips tingled with the memory of his skin beneath her touch. Though it had only been a few hours earlier, the certainty that it had been too long since she'd last luxuriated in the power of his embrace burned deep inside her.

"Pidge fusses too much," he replied. He glanced back, holding up the bag in his hand. "Guess it's a good thing I'm not really the sharin' sort, huh?"

She pretended to pout, folding her arms under her breasts as she leaned against the doorjamb. "What if I wanted some?"

The flames made his eyes glitter as they swept over her body, lingering on the curve of her hip before sliding back up. "Could let you fight me for 'em," Spike drawled.

"That would be a short fight. One swing from you and you'd drop the bag to grab your head."

"Maybe I'm just lookin' for an excuse to get you straddling me, pet."

"You need an excuse now? And here I thought you were so gunfire sure of your manly appeal."

He didn't say anything to that, just dropped the marshmallows to the side of the hearth before crossing the room to stand in front of her. Buffy forced herself to stay nonchalant at his approach, though the prowl within his step was unmistakable, and even tore her eyes away from his lean hips when he stopped, tilting her head back so that she could look into his face.

"Was that supposed to impress me?" Buffy asked. She kept her tone light, every cadence playful. "Am I supposed to be quaking in my boots at the big, bad vampire stalking me as his next prey?"

Spike lifted a finger to trace the soft curve of her jaw. "Not your boots I'm interested in," he said. The corner of his mouth canted when an involuntary shiver took over her muscles, and he brought his other hand to the button of her jeans. "Be a shame to waste our night nattering away. 'Specially since Pidge went to such lengths to make sure we got some alone time."

She grabbed his hand before it could steal down the front of her pants, but rather than get annoyed at the obstruction, Spike smirked and laced his fingers through hers, keeping them firmly between their torsos. "Maybe I'm not in the mood," Buffy said. Her cheeks reddened when he cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. "I could be! Not be! You know what I mean!"

"I know what your body's tellin' me."

"My body's been known to lie. I wouldn't trust it if I were you."

"So, if I do this…" Never breaking gazes with her, Spike leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers, the tip of his tongue a feather accompaniment that made her thighs tense in anticipation. "…you want me to believe it doesn't affect you in the slightest."

Her throat was dry so when she spoke it came out as a croak. "Nope."

"And if I do this…"

Coiling the fingers of his free hand in the thick tresses that hung down her back, Spike used the grip to tilt her head, exposing her neck, and nibbled downward, over the hammering pulse point, into the hollow at the base, before suckling at the curve of her shoulder. Buffy gasped, her body arching instinctively toward his, but Spike pulled away at the first hint of her response, gazing down at her with eyes that had been swallowed in ebony.

"…you feel nothin'?" he asked.

She shook her head, though they both were more than aware that she was lying.

"Guess that means I should try a bit harder, then." Before she could stop him, Spike was tugging her back toward the fireplace, and though every inch raised her body temperature another degree, Buffy knew it wasn't because of the fire.

"Sit," Spike ordered.

She'd obeyed before the thought not to even entered her head, and then silently scolded herself for yielding so quickly. She was rather enjoying playing the hard-to-get role; after acquiescing so readily to their desires the past few nights, the cat and mouse game had turned surprisingly enjoyable. But when Spike grabbed the marshmallows and sat down opposite her, pulling her closer so that their pelvises were parallel, her calves resting across the top of his thighs, Buffy realized there was still plenty of room to enjoy the seduction he was so doggedly pursuing.

"We never did finish our conversation on the porch," Spike said as he ripped open the bag. His tone was overly casual, as if they were discussing the grocery list and not emotional vows, and he seemed to be deliberately keeping his eyes from hers.

Was this still part of the game? Buffy wondered. Or was it something else entirely?

"Someone told me to shut up," she replied playfully. "And then proceeded to make sure my mouth was too busy to argue with him."

"What? Like this?"

The soft brush of a marshmallow suddenly tickled her lips, and Buffy's mouth opened automatically to take it between her teeth. Spike's gaze was locked on the sight, his nostrils flaring as she slowly bit into the fluff, and his free hand dropped to her ankle, strong fingers sliding up the bottom of her jeans to start stroking her calf.

"You're doin' that on purpose," he accused, his voice husky with desire.

She smiled as she chewed at the sweet, swallowing it down before saying, "Doing what?"

"Did you mean it?" The question was abrupt, shot-sharp as he blurted it out. "Tell me I'm not fuckin' dreaming all of this. That someone hasn't magicked me into Dickens with the ghosts and our own version of Tiny Tim tucked away in your bed."

Her voice was soft when she answered. "There was a time when you would've thought that was a nightmare, Spike."

"You're not answering my question, Buffy."

"I thought…" It was hard to think straight with the slow massage happening on her leg. "…you said you didn't say how you felt expecting to hear anything in return."

"That was then. Changed my mind." He popped the remainder of the marshmallow into his mouth, reaching automatically for the bag for another.

"Why?"

"I need a reason?"

"It helps."

Her mouth was open and ready for the second treat to slip onto her tongue, and Buffy sucked hard, taking him by surprise when she stretched to include his finger in her devouring.

"You make me think anything is possible," Spike said as she sucked. She could feel his hand trembling from the restraint he was exerting over his limbs. "You make me want it all. All of _you_. Not just that sweet little quim of yours, though I taste you and I think that I could give up blood if I could just dine on you all day. But…all of it, luv. Your body, your heart. You."

His hand withdrew, and Buffy's mouth felt empty from the loss. "More," she said.

But Spike misunderstood and reached for the marshmallow bag again, extracting a third but then purposefully withholding it.

"Does hearin' about your mum change things between us?" he asked. There was a veil already falling behind his eyes, and it made her ache to think her coy behavior was backfiring on her.

"Nothing's changed," Buffy insisted. She scooted her bottom forward, closing the gap between them until their thighs were touching, the hard line of his erection only just touching the cleft between her legs. "Why would you think it's changed?"

He shrugged. "Just seems…the last thing you want to do is admit to what happened on the porch, is all. Can't blame a bloke for doubting." His hand left her calf, came up to cup her cheek. "Forget it. Didn't mean to kill the mood."

The kiss was swift, his mouth hungry, and Buffy's arms rose to cling to Spike's shoulders. Around her, the heat from the fire was making the room spin---or it could've been Spike; it was eerie how kissing him could have that kind of effect on her---and she was hardly aware of the extra degrees when her blouse fluttered open to reveal her breasts to his touch.

Her nails dug into his nape as she fought to deepen the caress, tasting the sultry tang of sugar and smoke with every sweep of his tongue, and then whimpered when his mouth disappeared.

"Love you," he started murmuring against her cheek, against her jaw, against all of her. "Didn't know…but now…now, can't bloody forget, can I? Shouldn't be possible…but you convince me it can, that anything can…"

At some point, he must've dropped the marshmallow because Buffy could feel both of his hands on her now, one holding her firm by the base of her neck, allowing his mouth access to the smooth expanse of her throat, the other fluttering over the hardened buds of her nipples, each scrape of the lacy bra against the tender flesh sending shock waves straight to her clit. All thoughts of playing the tease vanished, and Buffy lifted her legs to wrap them around his waist, grinding their pelvises together until she thought the dampness of her pussy would soak through both sets of denim.

The contact made Spike growl. When she felt his body shift to lower her to the floor, she turned the action against him, using his momentum and the power of her legs to twist until it was his back that pressed into the wood.

"Why do you always talk so much?" she asked, pinning his hands over his head. Her gaze was momentarily captured by the flex of his biceps beneath his tee, and she spontaneously leaned forward to nip at the sinew. She held him down when Spike bucked beneath her, murmuring, "See what other nice things you can do with your mouth?"

"Luv…Buffy…" His jaw was lax, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and a wicked gleam came into his eyes when her head lifted. "What happened to not bein' in the mood?"

"Changed my mind," she replied with a grin. "Isn't that the song for the night?"

"If you care to remember, I dropped my issues."

She ground her pelvis into his, the moan simultaneously escaping both of them. "Are you saying you want me to stop?" Buffy panted.

"Never. But…" His gaze darted upward, indicating the hold she still had on him. "Considering we're both still wearing pants, you're goin' to have to let me go if you want this to go any further. And if you let me go…" He didn't have to finish the sentence. The implied threat---or vow, depending upon how she looked at it---was more than obvious.

For a moment, she just watched him, drowning in the amusement that animated his features. "I want to be on top," she said softly. Her clit was tingling at the idea of the rough contact from riding him so, and her thighs unconsciously squeezed around him.

It made Spike hiss, his eyelids fluttering shut while he struggled to stay in control. "Make you a deal," he said, and his voice was thick, coated in rich promise of bliss-filled hours and rapture galore. His eyes opened, the blue stormy as they fixed on her face. "Tell me this isn't a bloody dream, and I'll let you do whatever the hell you want."

He wanted her to say it out loud. His muscles were screaming for the confirmation, his fingers twitching as he battled the urge to demand it from her in blood. And he was asking for it by bartering with the thing he held so prized, the reins to the respect she'd given him since agreeing to this new relationship.

Just as she'd given herself over to him last night, granting him the avowal of her trust by allowing him to taste her, Spike was offering the same, in the only way he knew how.

It made her heart clench.

Slowly, Buffy stretched out atop Spike, her blouse floating down to the sides as her breasts pressed into the soft cotton of his tee. Though she kept her hands on his wrists, her grip loosened, her thumbs tracing over the raised veins they found. "Why were you arguing with Holly at dinner?" she asked softly.

The question seemed like the last thing he expected, and the expectation that had been lurking beneath Spike's features hardened as he struggled to shift with her. "What does that have to do with anything, pet?"

"She thinks of us as family. You, me, her." She paused. "Is that how _you_ think of us?"

Slow understanding. "Little one's had a rough time," Spike said. "Just…don't want her to think she's alone in it, is all."

"I said, how do you think of _us_."

"This has _all_ been about us, pet." Pause. "What about you? Do _you_ see her as family? See…_us_ as family?"

Her mouth descended, resting on his almost chastely. When she pulled away, the wonder in Spike's aspect spurred her to say, "Nobody's dreaming here. I may not have said it when you did, but it doesn't mean I don't feel it." Another kiss across his lips, and she slid her hands down his arms, away from his wrists so that he was free to move if he wished. "I love you, Spike. Don't ask me how it happened, because I'm not nearly as good at figuring this stuff out as it looks like you are, but I do. I love you."

His smile was brilliant. "Now, was that so hard?" he said lightly. His hands came up to push her top off her shoulders, guiding her upward so that he could free the sleeves and then tossing it carelessly to the side. "I'm all yours, Buffy. Have your wicked Slayer way with me."

Her chest felt suddenly lighter, her skin aflame. "Get out of these," she ordered, slapping at his denim-clad hip. Hopping to her feet, Buffy made short work of her remaining clothes, throwing them to the couch. As she watched, Spike pulled off his tee, followed quickly by a shimmy of his hips to get his jeans off as well. Her mouth watered when she saw his erection spring free, and before he was able to disentangle his legs from the denim, she was crouching at his side, his cock in her hand, her thumb swiping at the wetness that was already dripping from its head. With a graceful dive, her lips circled the tip, her tongue darting out to probe at the slit, and then she was sliding down its rigid length.

"Fuck, Buffy," Spike said. Forgetting about his jeans, he laid back onto the floor, his hand settling around the back of her head to guide her as she began sucking up and down. Though she could feel the trembling already starting in his thighs, he still managed to surprise her when he lunged for her hips.

"Come here," he growled.

She was thrown off-balance when he pulled her leg across his chest. Pulling off his cock, Buffy twisted to ask him what the hell he was doing when she felt his tongue run along her soaking slit, lapping at her juices with audible pleasure. She gasped, frozen in place.

"You said you wanted to be on top," she heard him murmur from between her thighs. Another lick in the reverse direction, ending with a quick bite at her clit, made her settle into the position over his face. "Never said I couldn't have a spot of fun as well."

It was hard to concentrate on his cock with that amazing tongue distracting her with every lick, suck, and probe. Buffy began focusing her attention on her breathing, anything but the sensations in her pelvis, savoring the feel of his arousal as she let it slide over her tongue, past her lips, back down again to the opening of her throat.

In and out, she reminded herself. Hot and cold. Soft and steel. Buffy and Spike.

All of it.

Any of it.

All of it again.

And when he began fucking her with his fingers, his mouth suddenly hungry for the nibbles of her clit, she rocked against the movement, encouraging him deeper while she took even more of him into her mouth. She began mirroring what she could of his actions, letting her hand slip to stroke the velvet soft skin beneath his balls, feeling him jerk at the soft intrusion and try to force himself even further inside.

It was empowering beyond anything she had ever felt.

Then, she came.

She hadn't expected to. Her breathing was getting shallower, and try as she might, she was having more and more difficulty evening the rhythm as she sucked Spike's cock. He was inside her, she knew, but how many and, for seconds there, even the question of whether it was his fingers or not, kept the mystery of it just high enough to flame her flesh even more.

But then there was the faintest of touches down the crack of her ass.

The softest of probes.

And the spasms rocked her upwards, her weight bearing on her knees as her back arched, her hands clutching at his muscled stomach. Her body tensed and failed her when she begged it to support her. It couldn't. It was too busy electrocuting itself with pleasure.

Buffy's fingers dug into Spike's abdomen as she rode out the waves. Even before they began to ebb, though, she was up, off, around.

Facing him.

Straddling him.

Forcing his cock inside her with a wrenching lunge that made them both shudder.

Spike's hands came up to her hips, not guiding but simply holding on. His eyes were on her face, watching and devouring every gasp of pleasure, every frisson of emotion that she was no longer afraid of showing him, and when she began speeding up, sliding up and down so that every stroke had his balls slapping against her ass, her clit rasping against his coarse hair, he began speaking, so low that if she hadn't seen his lips moving, she wouldn't have been sure it was him.

"That's it," he coaxed. "Let it go. Just let it all out, pet. Give it to me. Gonna make you feel so good, Buffy. All you have to do is let me. Let me. Let me in. Fuck…you and me…nothin' you can't do, just do it, I want it, I know you want it…want it…fuck…love you so bloody much…"

The sudden slam of his hips to meet hers announced his orgasm, and it only took feeling the first sensations of his pulsating cock shooting inside her to set off Buffy's second. Her pussy clamped down around him, and the look of bliss that passed over Spike's features was enough to send her forward, her weight dropping to his chest as she slammed her lips to his.

The kiss lasted longer than either of them coming, and when they finally broke apart, Buffy's lungs were fighting for air. "Love you," she heard Spike whisper into her hair, but the only thing she was aware of was her own need to speak.

"Wow," she whispered. "Just…wow."

Spike chuckled, a rumble that made her sweaty skin slide across his chest. "Something tells me this might become a very familiar position for us."

She squeezed her inner muscles around him, eliciting a groan. "It's a good thing Holly wanted us to have some alone time," she said. "I just hope she doesn't start asking about all the weird noises."

"I don't have a problem tellin' her if it bothers you."

Buffy slapped at his shoulder. "Somehow, I think that might be worse." She yelped when he suddenly flipped her over, and then smiled when he merely hovered to gaze down at her.

"You know you're not alone in it, too…don't you?"

It was the earnestness in his voice that made her smile soften, and Buffy reached up to stroke the hard line of his cheek. "I think what's more important is that _you_ know that," she murmured. "Because you're not. Not any more."

He kissed her at that, not the hard demand of wanting more, but the grateful tenor of a starving man. And when he pulled her to curl into his chest, his hands stroking her hair, she rested her cheek against his smooth skin with her own smile of gratitude.

To a little girl who just wanted to see her family happy.

To be continued in Chapter 43: Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away…


	43. Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce is organizing an escape from Maria's, while Buffy has finally confessed the depth of her love for Spike…

-----

In spite of her protestations to the contrary, she'd fallen asleep almost immediately on his chest, her hair tumbling over his shoulder as she breathed out tiny little snores that tickled along his skin. Buffy's leg was thrown over his pelvis, the heat from her bare thigh just enough to keep him erect, but Spike was mostly oblivious to his arousal.

What had started as a game turned surprisingly serious when the desire to rip the truth out of her, to get everything out in the open once and for all, had stricken Spike into demanding some answers. It wasn't enough to have her legs wrapped around him so tight he'd gladly put himself back in that sodding wheelchair just to feel her come around his cock. He wanted it all. He wanted her to tell him that he bloody well _did_ matter to her, that this wasn't a dream she was going to yank away from him and laugh hysterically when his heart shattered into such tiny slivers that he likely dusted from their impact. He wanted to know she loved him.

Then, she'd done it so effectively---_so_ fucking effectively, good on her---bandying about words that were guaranteed to eradicate the last barriers he hid behind. Like _family_. Like _not alone._

Like _love_.

Even if she never asked it of him, Spike knew there was nothing the Slayer could request that he wouldn't willingly grant. It wasn't quite the same as before, though. Though he could likely be termed love's bitch yet again, this time, he wasn't lost in it. Buffy wouldn't tolerate a partner who wasn't at least as strong as she was; it was just one of the many reasons why she and the college boy had failed. Spike had little doubt that she respected the way he'd stood up for himself, demanding equal opportunities in the space of the their newfound relationship. It was a status quo he was intent on keeping.

His fingers fell to caress the side of her breast, the swell pushed awkwardly outward from the pressure of lying against his body. He smiled when the goosebumps erupted, and shifted to allow room to reach the hardening nipple. So finely tuned, this one. It was going to be a pleasure learning exactly how best to strum her flesh, to create those glorious sounds of her orgasms again and again.

Better yet, learning how to get Buffy to be more comfortable with saying the words. Spike had had a hint of how good it could be. Now, he wanted more.

Easing her off to lay her on her back, Spike's mouth descended to start kissing the soft arch of Buffy's collarbone. She tasted sweet and salty, like honey-roasted peanuts warmed on the fire, and his veins began pulsating with the desire to devour her again. When she stirred beneath his touch, he lifted his head to watch the flames' shadows flicker over her face. God, she was beautiful.

"You stopped." She didn't open her eyes when she spoke, the two words barely intelligible in her state of half-sleep. "Why'd you stop?"

"Should get up to bed," he replied. He wasn't about to admit to staring at her like some lovesick ponce. She had enough ammunition to taunt him with for years to come. "Was just debating if it was worth wakin' you for."

Buffy's eyes fluttered open. "Short debate, I guess," she said. "Since I'm already awake."

"You weren't."

"Close enough."

Gently, Spike ran a fingertip across her swollen lips. "Say it again," he murmured.

"Close enough."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." She burrowed back into his body, ducking her eyes. "Aren't you tired of hearing it?"

"Never." He paused. "You're not fussing already 'bout---."

Her head shot up, narrowly missing connecting with his chin in her haste. "Don't even think it," she warned, suddenly wide awake. "As hard as it was for me to say, don't you dare start thinking that I didn't mean it. That's not my style, Spike. I thought you knew that."

"I do." Capturing her mouth in a quick kiss, Spike shoved aside the doubts that her slight reluctance had roused. "Just…part of it still doesn't feel real."

"It'll be real enough when we're having to explain it to my friends. And my mom. She didn't like Angel being my boyfriend, either, remember. I've got a feeling she's going to have a few choice words to say about this relationship, too."

"Like, 'It's about time you picked a decent vamp to shag, Buffy.'"

She slapped at his chest, curling back down into his side. "For your information, she'd _never_ use the word, 'shag.' After she saw Austin Powers, she said it once when we were at the mall, and I teased her so much about it, right in front of this really cute guy at Cinnabon, that she never said it again. Behold, the true powers of mother/daughter bonding."

Spike chuckled. Hearing Buffy sound so unSlayer-like, and knowing she was relaxed enough in his presence to allow herself that luxury, was music to his ears. "Still," he said, "not too bothered about your mum. She knows a good thing when she sees it."

"And I suppose _you're _that good thing."

"Bloody right, I am. Who else would put up with your mood swings like I do---." He laughed when she shoved him away, rolling on to his side to watch her sit up and fold her arms across her bare breasts. "I rest my case, Sybil."

"You piss me off on purpose, don't you, Spike?"

"Well, yeah. Gotta get my jollies _somewhere_."

He could tell she wasn't really mad. Though she pressed her lips into a thin line, the muscles in her cheeks betrayed her desire to smile.

"Besides…" Slowly, Spike's hand slithered forward, gliding along the length of her half-exposed leg until it could dip into the moist cleft between her thighs. "…something tells me you haven't discovered the joys of angry sex yet, luv. When all you want to do is pound the other person into the ground. Feel them twist around you while you both try to be the one to come out on top…"

Her eyes had closed halfway through his words, her mouth falling slack. "When we have angry sex," Buffy breathed, "it'll be over a _real_ fight. Like when we get back to Sunnydale and I throw out all your hair gel."

"Hey!"

She grinned, but didn't open her eyes. "Be grateful I'm cutting you some leeway with the bleach. But no way are you going back to helmet hair. I like the curls too much. Plus, nicer to touch."

With a growl, Spike grabbed Buffy's hips and yanked her back to him, ignoring her protesting squeal to pull her back against him. "You're just lucky I love you," he said, biting playfully at her neck. "Don't know why I pick such bossy bitches to fall for."

"First off, I'm not being bossy about your hair. I just have better style sense than you do and I am not about to let you lose out on the benefit of my brilliance. And secondly…" Taking his hand in hers, she pulled it down so that it cupped her bottom. "…you just gave me a sliver, you jerk. How are you planning on making that up to me?"

The illumination from the fireplace did nothing to hide the glimmer of desire that darkened Buffy's eyes. Without looking away, Spike tugged her forward, moving back and out of her way just enough so that she could lie flat on her stomach, and then began rubbing soft circles around the swell of her ass. "You know, Harmony used to keep a stake under our bed," he commented.

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "And we're talking about skanky exes because…?"

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her shoulder. "Dru used to have a thing for wood, too," he said, ignoring her previous words.

"You are _not_ comparing me to those two."

"No comparison." His tongue was on her back now, dipping into the curve of her spine to follow the path downward. "Just thought it was interestin', is all."

"Interesting is not going to get you---ohhhh…"

Her words were lost in a breathy sigh when Spike's teeth found the softest part of her ass and bit down, just enough for her to squirm her pelvis against the floor. He smiled. "Guess you're lucky my heart's not in my mouth, then," he murmured. "No chance of me gettin' staked if I do this."

The fresh scent of her juices drifted to his nose, but Spike was too intent on soothing the rough patch of skin sliding across the floor had created on Buffy's bottom. He could feel the sharp tip of the splinter against his tongue, catching it every time he licked at the spot, but only when he heard her whimper at his localized attention did he slip his fingers between her legs and past her outer lips.

Buffy exhaled with a muffled cry. As she began thrusting back against his seeking fingers, Spike let his demon emerge, his fangs elongating to nick at the tender skin around the sliver. Carefully, he caught it between his teeth and pulled it out, but not before a few droplets of her blood landed on his tongue. His growl was instinctive. Before he could think otherwise, he slid up her body, sheathing his cock deep inside her pussy as he did so.

She bucked back against him. Her eyes were open, and he knew she saw him in his gameface before she looked away, but the way she thrust down along his rigid length told him she didn't care.

He knew he could probably bite her without setting off the chip. The way she responded to his insistent pounding, pushing back and trembling as he held her firm, only half-letting her hold herself up as he fucked her from behind, betrayed her desire for him---for this---just as surely as if she'd said the words. And he had to admit, he was more than tempted. Every slam forward bared her neck to him even more, exposing the sinew of her Slayer muscles working in concord to ride him blind.

But he wouldn't. Couldn't. They'd already proven that biting could be a seductive part of their lovemaking. Spike wasn't about to abuse that trust he'd gained with her by taking without her explicit consent.

She came quickly, shuddering, a mold beneath his fingers to ply. When Spike curled his arm around her waist in order to drive deeper, Buffy helped his arousal by turning her head and sinking her teeth into his bicep. It loosed the dam within, and his body went rigid as his cock slammed one final time, the fire igniting his flesh a product of the flames and her.

God, her. Buffy. _His_.

The room dipped around him as he rode out the last of his orgasm. Didn't feel completely real, he'd said to her. And how could it? Slayers weren't supposed to love vampires---not the ones without souls, at least---and vampires weren't supposed to want to protect the very person so bent on their destruction.

And yet here they were, and as he sat up, taking her with him to cradle her in his lap, Spike felt a rush of completion surge through him. Buffy might think that things would be hard for them once they got back to Sunnydale, and while she might be right, Spike was of the opinion that the hardest bit was now already past.

She made him feel like he could do anything.

"Should move this to where little ones with big eyes might not necessarily see us," he murmured into her hair.

She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. "But then there's no more chances for me to get splinters," she said, pretending to pout. "And I've got to say, that was _way_ better than Mom with the tweezers any day."

"I can think of other ways to keep you entertained." Rising to his feet, he walked with Buffy over to the ladder, setting her on one of the rungs before stepping back. "Now get yourself up there while I seal up the fortress. I don't want any more walkabouts interrupting our games."

She kissed him quickly before climbing to the loft, and Spike hurriedly began moving the furniture around to block the door. He didn't think Holly would be sleepwalking tonight, but there was no way for them to predict what might set off her dreamworld. Better to be safe than sorry.

Besides, she was one of his girls now. And Spike knew how to take care of his girls.

Both of them.

-----

In the end, it was much simpler than she'd first thought it would be

Paul surprised both of them by volunteering to act as a diversion. "If something goes wrong," he'd said, his young face so earnest that Joyce felt like pinching his cheeks, "I'm the one most likely to escape Maria's wrath. She won't suspect me. Of the three of us, I'm the only one never to give her cause to doubt my loyalty."

Joyce thought it was incredibly brave and told him so with a warm smile.

"It's foolhardy," Giles retorted. But at the stern look she'd shot him, he'd added, albeit reluctantly, "And correct."

He left them then, to seek out Silas and Maria, keeping them busy with a faux discovery regarding Holly's location until Giles and Joyce could get to the car. It was agreed that they would come back to the gates for him, but they would only wait for as long as they thought it safe. They couldn't risk detection if they wanted to get beyond the reach of Maria's magic.

They waited for five minutes before leaving Paul's room. In that time period, Giles never said another word to Joyce, though she knew he was more than a little annoyed with her gung-ho attitude. Frankly, she didn't care. He might be Buffy's Watcher, but _she_ was her mother, and there was no way Joyce could sit back and allow that Maria bitch to continue on with her plans. Without Giles or Paul to help fathom out Holly's location, Maria would fail. Right now, Joyce wanted nothing more than to see the woman fall flat on her face from it.

"Stay close to me," Giles instructed when they finally reached the stairs. "I know this house a little better than you do. I believe I can get us to the front door without alerting anyone."

She nodded. Now was not the time to be arguing with him.

The house was silent as they crept down the stairs, and Joyce cringed when her foot found a squeaky spot on one of the risers. They froze, listening for a response, but when none came, resumed their stealthy pace.

The front door was unlocked, and slipping into the darkness on the other side eased one of the knots in Joyce's stomach. Pulling the jacket she'd borrowed from Paul closer around her, she rushed past Giles and off the porch, leading him away from the path that cut through the front yard and into the trees that lined the perimeter of the estate.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, coming up behind her. His breath was a white plume in the air, but even that was difficult to see once they'd reached the cover of the foliage.

"You may know the inside," she said, "but I know the out. There's a wall that runs around the property. If we go down the drive, we'll be seen. This is the best way for us to get out undetected."

"You didn't mention a wall to Paul."

"Because he already knows." She led Giles past a twisted oak, noting the break just a few yards ahead. "If you'd been paying attention instead of sulking about this being suicide, you would've heard him remind me of it."

They came to a stop before the stone wall. Joyce's hands were already shivering from the cold, but she knew this was no time to take a break to warm them. Using the carved rocks as holds, she wedged her toe into one of the crevices and grabbed one over her head to start climbing over. As she started to move to a higher rock, warm hands were suddenly on her bottom, pushing her up to the top and allowing her to swing her leg over with little more difficulty.

She only had to wait a moment before Giles appeared, carefully hopping the few feet to the ground as he slid over the wall's top. "Which way to the car?" he asked, squinting against the darkness.

Joyce looked up down and the dirt road they now stood alongside. "That way," she said, pointing to her left. She began trudging along the packed snow to prove her certainty, and was quickly joined by Giles. "It's not that far."

It was silent as they walked. "I owe you an apology," he said, finally shattering the quiet.

"For feeling me up when you helped me over the wall?" she teased.

"For not believing we could do it. I'm sorry."

She shrugged, though it was barely noticeable beneath her jacket. "It's your job to be skeptical. You wouldn't be you if you weren't."

More silence. And then…

"Joyce…have you been working out?"

She smiled into the darkness.

-----

She didn't even look up when Silas came scuttling back into her study. "So, was I right?" Maria asked.

"They're gone," Silas replied. "And I saw Paul slipping out the front door as I was coming back downstairs."

She merely nodded. "Your worries about him weren't unfounded, it would seem."

"But…" His plump cheeks were flushed, his eyes darting from his hostess to the door behind him. "Why would you let them go? We'll never find your daughter without Rupert or Paul's aid."

"That's where you're wrong. They are now our best means for locating Holly." Glancing at the watch on her slim wrist, she rose to her feet. "Mrs. Summers made it more than clear that she knows more than she is telling. You and I are going to find out exactly what that is."

He shook his head. "I don't understand. How can you know this? What do you possibly believe we might gain in following them?"

"This is why I'm the one who leads and you're the one who follows, my dear Silas." She stopped in front of him and patted him condescendingly on the arm. "You've trusted me this far. You really must trust me just a tad further."

When he nodded, Maria smiled and brushed past him to the doorway. Young Paul's odd behavior had been the only telltale signs she needed to have the surveillance tapes on his room pulled. She only bothered with them when the need arose, and hadn't really given a second thought to her Watchers' duplicity since Giles' phone call to Sunnydale.

At least it was now going to pay off. Joyce Summers knew where Holly was, and now she was going to lead Maria straight to her.

To be continued in Chapter 44: Don't You Tell a Single Soul…


	44. Don't You Tell a Single Soul

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Spike have come even closer together after their vows, and Joyce has escaped relatively easily from Maria's with Giles…

-----

When she'd contemplated how she'd be spending her Christmas holidays, Joyce never thought she'd turn out funding the Great Escape of 1999.

"I'll pay you back," Rupert said when she handed over her credit card to the hotel clerk.

"I know," she replied. She didn't want to talk about this at the moment. She just wanted to get to her room and sleep until the next year.

Paul had been waiting for them when they'd returned with the car, and the trio had driven for hours throughout the night, fearful of stopping and finding Maria directly behind them. Rupert had alternated the driving responsibilities with her, but young Paul had begged off, claiming his inability to discern the reverse positions of the car and roads too hazardous to put him behind the wheel. Eventually, though, exhaustion had won, and just before dawn, Joyce had pulled into a tiny hole-in-the-wall motel to get rooms for them to recover.

Paul disappeared into the room he was sharing with Giles with a faint good night and a small wave, leaving the remaining two waiting for the other to speak.

"How long do you think you're going to need?" Joyce finally asked.

"A few hours, I'd imagine. You?"

"The same."

The awkwardness stretched into silence, but when Joyce turned to unlock the door of her room, she felt Rupert's hand come to rest softly her arm.

"What do you plan on doing?" he queried.

She smiled. "I thought it was obvious. Sleep."

"I meant…afterward. Do you intend to return to Sunnydale?"

She'd been hoping he wasn't going to ask. The issue had not been broached during their ride, but that didn't mean she wasn't considering it. She just wasn't sure how he was going to react to her decision.

"Yeah, Joyce."

The sudden voice behind her made whirl, her heart pounding even though she knew who it was. She glared at him when Doyle only grinned.

"What _do_ you intend to do?" he finished.

-----

It could've been his weariness distorting his perceptions, but Giles was certain that Joyce and Doyle were flirting with each other. She'd invited the so-called ghost into her hotel room with barely a chastisement for so visibly frightening her, and only as an afterthought had she done the same for Giles. Then, she'd proceeded to put on a pot of coffee in the dreadfully stained miniature coffeemaker that the room sported, and started chatting away about her adventures in Maria-land---as she so eloquently put it; really, was it any wonder that Buffy spoke the way she did?---as if it wasn't unusual in the slightest to have a corporealized ghost sprawled across her hotel room bed.

Giles was left to gawp in silence.

"You didn't!" Doyle exclaimed, his eyes twinkling.

"I did," Joyce said proudly. "I went right out the window."

"And Tara and Jenny were so worried about you," he scoffed. "I guess you showed them."

The names dropped so casually yanked Giles from his preoccupation with Joyce's behavior to the lounging Irishman. "What…did you say?" he asked carefully.

Joyce sighed. "He doesn't know, Doyle," she said.

"I don't know _what_?" Setting aside his still-full coffee cup, Giles rose to his feet, crossing to stand between the two who couldn't help the guilty looks they kept exchanging. "What didn't you tell me back at Maria's?"

"I didn't want to upset you," she started, but though her voice was gentle, his short temper wasn't willing to pacified.

"So it's true? This Jenny he speaks of…is that…Jenny Calendar?"

He'd almost said _my_ Jenny, for even though it had been almost two years since she'd been killed, he still very often thought of her in those terms. It was difficult not to imagine the sort of life they might've had if their chances hadn't been cut so tragically short.

And yes, he was getting upset.

He had every bloody right to be.

"It doesn't matter who it is trying to protect Holly," Joyce was saying. "What's important is that we've managed to thwart Maria's efforts by removing you and Paul from that environment. Without you, she won't be able to find out that Buffy and Spike are watching her."

It was Doyle's turn to come to attention. "Who's Paul?"

"Another Watcher Maria had kidnapped. She was using three of them to try and locate Holly."

"And you told him _everything_?" The jocularity was gone. Doyle was starting to get as upset as Giles felt. "How do you know you can trust him, Joyce?"

"You don't," Giles intervened.

"Why shouldn't I?" she countered. "_You_ do."

"Out of necessity under those specific circumstances. I never suggested he accompany us on your grand plan, which by the way, still seems to have been executed just a little too easily for my comfort."

She folded her arms across her chest, turning to face him squarely. "I didn't hear you complaining when we got over that wall so fast," Joyce said.

"Yes, you did. You just chose to ignore me. Don't all parents develop selective hearing when their children become teenagers?"

"Are you saying you're acting like a teenager?"

"OK, you crazy kids, pipe down." Doyle stepped between them. "What we have here is a failure to communicate---."

"Oh, wonderful," Giles muttered, and turned away to sit back down in his chair. "Yet another one obsessed with quoting his pop culture. My day is now complete."

"That's enough." Joyce's voice was sharp and loud in the room, and her eyes were flashing as they darted between the two men. "Perhaps I should've been a little more upfront with you," she said to Giles, "but if I'd told you about Ms. Calendar when we were still at Maria's, can you honestly say you would've been just as quick to escape as you were? You wouldn't have been distracted with thoughts of her?" She turned to Doyle. "And regardless of what Rupert might say, Paul seems honestly willing to do the right thing. I wouldn't have brought him along if I thought he'd put Buffy in any danger."

"I still don't like it," Doyle said.

"You've met Buffy," Giles said to the other man. "Does it _really_ surprise you that her mother would act so similarly?"

"And her mother is still in the room, thank you very much. Now. Can we start over, please? I'd like to get everything discussed that needs to be discussed before I fall on my face from exhaustion. I've been nearly killed, knocked out with magic, and then escaped from a psychotic's home all within the past couple days. I _really_ don't need to add arbitrating differences with the two of you to that list."

Giles pressed his lips together. She had a point, albeit a small one. Still, to think that Jenny was somehow involved in this…

"If it makes you feel better, Jenny wasn't so keen on upsetting you, either." Doyle was addressing him now, a look of pity behind those sharp eyes.

"No, it doesn't make me feel better," he replied, "but thank you for saying so."

"Are we going to talk about this?" Joyce asked.

With a sigh, Giles pushed himself back to his feet. "My suggestion is that we discuss this after some rest," he said. "I think our ill tempers will only be aggravated further if we were to continue on as we are without it."

Doyle nodded. "Think that's a grand idea. I probably shouldn't have barged in until later anyway, but when I got word that Joyce here had managed to get out again, well, I couldn't stay away from the excitement of it all."

Giles hid rolling his eyes as he walked to the door. There was really nothing subtle about the ghost, was there? "I'll ring your room when Paul and I are refreshed," he said to Joyce, keeping his tone neutral. "If you need anything in the interim---."

"I'll call you," she finished.

He was almost out the door when she called out, "I am sorry, Rupert."

Closing it behind him, Giles sagged as soon as he was out of their presence. Jenny. He hadn't considered her for any length in quite some time. To think…

No. Joyce had been right in not telling him of Jenny's involvement. He was already distracted from the issue at hand, and they were under far less stress now than they had been under Maria's control. He owed it to all of them to pull himself together. Sleep was exactly what he needed.

-----

She felt like she could sleep for another week, but with the noise coming from downstairs, Buffy knew it was pretty much pointless.

Sighing, she rolled in the twisted sheets, opening her eyes to view the cold and rumpled pillow at her side. A room temperature body meant it was impossible for her to tell how long Spike had been up, but she reached out and fondled the cotton anyway, leaning just enough so that she could bury her nose in the folds and breathe in his scent.

She was sore, but in all the right places, muscles comfortably stretched, her bottom only slightly raw from where Spike had attacked it the night before. The memory made her squirm, and Buffy knew she was getting wet again as the feel of his mouth on her flesh returned with a vengeance to her imagination. He had vamped on her, and while it had been mildly disquieting at the time, she trusted him enough not to let him know that. It was going to happen every once in a while, and she would've been stupid to think otherwise.

"Slayer! I hear you awake up there! Get your ass down here!"

And then amidst a horrified giggle, "Spike! That's a bad word."

"Sorry, moptop." He raised his voice to call up to Buffy again. "Get your lovely bottom down here!"

Rolling her eyes, she tucked the sheet around her body as she hopped up from the bed and padded over to the railing. Her mouth opened to yell down at him, and then she stopped, frozen by the sight that greeted her.

The lower room looked as if her closet had exploded. Piles of her clothes were strewn across the wood floor, and t-shirts draped over the back of each of the chairs. Individual socks were looped around anything remotely pole-like, including the poker on the hearth, the legs of the kitchen table, and the short sword she'd left in her weapons bag next to the front door. There was even one of her bras dangling from the antlers of the deer mounted over the fireplace.

"What the hell happened?" she demanded, all good humor fading.

"We're playing store," Holly said. Her upturned face was beaming, though really, that was all Buffy could see of the child. The rest of the diminutive form was complete hidden by Spike's leather duster that she wore. "I'm selling your clothes and Spike's buying them."

Buffy turned her piqued gaze to the vampire, currently stretched out on the couch with various items from her underwear draped over him. As soon as their eyes met, he shrugged.

"It was like this when I got up," he said. "Don't be lookin' to point your finger of blame at me."

Instead, she lifted her hand and jabbed at the deer head. "You're tellin' me _she_ got my favorite bra up there? That's too Animal House for a three-year-old and surprisingly restrained for you."

Spike grinned. "That's from when I was tryin' to distract her from this notion we were goin' clothes shopping."

"It's a slingshot," Holly piped in.

"No, it's a fifty-five dollar bra that I had to beg my mom to buy for me," Buffy bit back.

"Well, I'd say you got your money's worth, pet. Those cups have got a helluva snap to 'em."

She exhaled loudly, deliberately counting to ten inside her head before saying anything. "Is there anything left in my drawers?" Buffy asked carefully.

"Nope," said Holly.

"So what do you expect me to wear today?"

Spike's gaze raked over her. "I'd say you look particularly fetching in my sheet, luv."

She pulled the aforementioned item tighter around her, suddenly conscious of her nudity in front of Holly. "Start picking them up," she ordered the little girl. "I'll be down in a minute to help you put everything away. And then we're going to have a long talk about personal space and why you don't invade it."

"But---."

"No buts." She pointed to a pink scrap nearest the ladder. "Could you toss that up here, please? I'd prefer not to flash everyone when I come down."

Casting a glance back at Spike, Holly slowly trudged over to the garment Buffy was indicating, the black leather dragging along behind her like a queen's train. She picked it up and threw it upwards, but the underwear only made a half-hearted arc and landed on a rung that was well beyond Buffy's reach.

"Hold up, pidge," Spike said. Brushing off the clothing that was draped over him onto the floor, he rose from the couch and sauntered over, plucking the panties from the ladder with a quick flick before squatting in front of the little girl. "What say you start with the tidying while I go try and help Buffy out? Seems she's got her knickers all in a twist and seein' as I'm the resident expert on how to undo those particular types of knots, I best get up there before she falls flat on her face tryin' to sort it herself."

"Is she mad at me?"

It was a whisper, but it was a Holly whisper, which meant that it carried to Buffy's ears all too clearly. She winced as she stepped away from the railing, but she still heard Spike's response as she moved back to the bed.

"Slayer's just not a morning person. By the time she comes down from that loft, I promise you she'll be her usual charming self."

Pause.

"Does she _have_ to be?"

Buffy's eyes closed. All those goodwill points she'd been accumulating with Holly the past few days? Out the window, it would seem.

"Now, you don't mean that, and you know it," Spike said. His voice had taken on a distinctly disapproving tone, one she'd never heard him use with the child before. "After everything she's done for you, least you can do is show her the proper respect she deserves, Holly. Yeah, she can be a right pill when the mood takes her, but she's got reason to be a little short-tempered with us about now. Don't be tryin' to turn her into the bad guy here when you know good and well we're the ones doin' the wrong, you understand?"

Silence.

Wow.

She'd never heard Spike get so stern with anyone before. He'd even called the little girl by her real name and not one of those annoying nicknames he was always using. It was enough to get Buffy starting to feel guilty about losing it so quickly at the sight of her wardrobe strewn around the room if that was the kind of response that it elicited.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, still lost in thought when Spike's head appeared at the top of the ladder. He didn't step into the loft, however, just leaned against the top rung and surveyed her from his post, her pink panties dangling from his fingers.

"You don't have to say it," she said before he could speak. "I know I over-reacted."

He shrugged. "Looked like a typical Slayer first response to me."

"Yeah, well, I was hoping I was starting to outgrow those. Silly me."

Shaking his head, Spike climbed up the rest of the way and strode to the bed to sit beside her, dropping the underwear into her lap. "Know I'm good, but I'm not a miracle worker," he teased. He began running a single finger along the upper edge of the sheet, where the cotton met the top of her breasts. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

Buffy's heart was starting to quicken at the hint of velvet each stroke was whispering into her skin. "Does she hate me again?" she asked, her voice tiny.

"She's three, pet. She just doesn't like being told she did wrong."

"So she _does_ hate me. Great."

Spike's hand disappeared behind her, slipping inside the sheet to slide down her spine and tug her gently closer. "You don't hate family," he said, and bent his head to taste the crook of her neck. "You get pissy when they gum up the works and make you clean up the mess, but you don't hate 'em."

Inwardly, she shook her head at the ass-backwards way he'd chosen to reassure her, but it was hard to do more than sigh in relief as his teeth joined in the attention currently being lavished on her neck. When his free hand started tugging at the lower part of the sheet to allow him access to her now-soaking slit, however, Buffy pushed against his chest to force some distance between them again.

"We can't," she protested. "Holly's down there and wide awake."

"But do you have any idea how delicious you look in my bedclothes, luv?" His voice was a throaty rumble, and he grabbed her hand and pressed it to the bulge in his jeans.

Before she pulled away again, she gave him a quick squeeze, eliciting a groan that made him flop back onto the mattress. "We can do that later," Buffy said. "Right now, I have some damage control to do to my wardrobe."

She felt his eyes on her as she rose and let the sheet drop to a puddle around her feet. Quickly, Buffy slithered into her underwear and then strode over to the dresser, pulling out one of Spike's t-shirts and slipping it over her head.

"I was wrong," she heard from behind. "You look more edible in my kit than the soddin' sheet."

She glanced back and saw him propped up on his elbows, watching her through his lashes, his tongue running along the edge of his teeth. "Are you always this horny?" she teased, and pulled her hair out from the collar of the shirt.

"What can I say, luv? You just seem to bring out the beast in me."

The instinct to reply that Buffy had thought she seemed to bring out the man in him rose and then was stifled, as she decided that going soft and mushy on Spike wasn't going to rescue her clothes any faster. If anything, it was going to result in the pair of them doing something obscene---but fun---with the potential of being discovered by a more than capable Holly climbing up and interrupting at any moment.

Instead, she walked back and scooped up the sheet, snapping it at his recumbent form. "You want it, you'll have to work for it," Buffy said. "Help me make the bed."

"Well, that's not any fun."

"Work never is. Hence, the work label and not the fun label."

When he didn't move from his reclining position, Buffy sighed and grabbed his ankle. "Just remember, you asked for this," she said, right before she yanked and tossed him toward the farthest empty wall.

Though it took him by surprise, Spike twisted in mid-air and landed on his ass instead of his head. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For not helping when I asked you to." But her tone was lighter than it had been, the quick rush of adrenaline the slight physical activity had given her already bolstering her mood. Maybe that's what I need, she thought as she brushed off the blankets to get the sheet back into place. A good workout that doesn't involve being naked. Kill a few demons, and get rid of some of this energy being pent-up in this place has stored---.

Her thoughts were interrupted when something sharp dropped on her toe. Bending slightly to look around the mattress she had lifted to tuck in the sheet, she saw the object in question

It was an old leather-bound book, unlike the ones that were stored downstairs, slim and worn as if it had been held and used on numerous occasions. Her brow wrinkled as she picked it up.

"What's this?" she asked, as she started to flip open the cover.

To be continued in Chapter 45: In the Old Silk Hat They Found…


	45. In the Old Silk Hat They Found

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce and the Watchers have holed up in a hotel for some sleep where Giles has discovered that Jenny is one of the ghosts, while Buffy has found Spike's journal beneath his bed…

-----

_Fuck._

He'd forgotten all about the sodding journal. He hadn't given it any thought since the last time it had fallen from its hiding place. _I bloody suck at hiding things, don't I?_

_ Double fuck._

As Spike watched Buffy pick it up, time slowed to a molasses pace, her normally graceful movements now dull and protracted. His stomach was lead, and if his heart could still beat, it would've stopped in mid-pulse, waiting to see what his Slayer was going to do with her discovery.

Fuck this waiting.

Leaping from his feet, Spike snatched the book from her hands before she could look past the first page, tossing it to the side and toppling her to the bed. Pain shot through his temple when Buffy's ankle hit the nightstand, but he ignored it as he rolled on top of her, grinding his pelvis into hers as he dove in for a violent kiss. Distraction was his best hope.

Distraction wasn't working.

With an annoyed shove, Buffy pushed him off, slithering out from beneath him. "I thought I said we'd do that later," she commented.

"Can you blame me?" Spike reached for her hip, a sly leer darkening his eyes though his mind was still with the book that now sat haphazardly on the floor. "Told you, you looked delectable, didn't I?"

"And I told you---." She cut herself off, shaking her head. "Never mind. Let's make the bed."

This time, he was all too glad to help her with the task, kicking the book beneath the dresser as discreetly as he could when she turned her back on him to tuck in her corner. He even reminded her---loudly, so that Holly was sure to hear---of the clothes that were still strewn about downstairs, and breathed a sigh of relief when she went charging down to take care of them. Better to place her attention on the little one than consider what it was she'd been holding. His best bet was to burn it at the first opportunity he had.

He waited until he thought the bulk of the tidying was done, making sure he went down with a shirt and socks on in order to explain his delay. A dejected Holly was sitting on the couch, rolling socks as Buffy gave her another lecture on personal property, and even though she shot Spike a baleful glance when he emerged from his hiding, he met the Slayer's eyes long enough to recognize the need to skirt the entire issue.

She came up to him when Buffy disappeared to the bathroom to get dressed in her own clothes.

"Why didn't you have to help?" Holly whined.

"Wasn't my mess," Spike replied, sipping at his mug of blood.

"_You_ made the slingshot."

"Actually, some bird named Victoria's responsible for that. I just put it to good use."

"You should've helped."

"I did my fair share."

She frowned as she thought hard about his statement. "Is a fair share the same thing as nothing?" she finally asked.

Spike pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes as he leaned in toward the child. "Little girls who make messes should be prepared to clean up after themselves," he said.

"But---."

She clamped her mouth shut when the bathroom door opened, and scurried back to her place on the couch as Buffy emerged. The Slayer stopped when she caught the tail end of the dash, and cast a curious frown at Spike.

He shrugged. "Not too pleased with her punishment, I guess. Why don't you take a load off, pet? You really haven't had a chance yet to stop today, have you?"

When she ignored his invitation and went straight to the refrigerator for some juice, Spike felt the first fingers of doubt begin to tickle around his awareness. They clenched into tight fists on his gut when she hopped up on the counter and called out, "Holly? Can you come here please?"

The little girl's feet shuffled along the wooden floor as she came over to the table, looking up at Buffy through her lashes.

"Sit down next to Spike, please."

Slayer had something in mind, he could tell. He had a sneaking suspicion something was about to go very much wrong for him.

Buffy waited until Holly was settled before addressing the both of them. "Not counting the rest of today, we've got two more days until we can get out of this place and Holly's going to be safe. Because of what happened this morning, I think we need to set some new rules in place so that nobody wakes up to any more surprises, and nobody has a reason to get angry with someone else."

"You said you weren't angry." Holly's voice was tiny, her eyes glued to Buffy.

"I'm not. Not any more. But you and Spike have this knack for being way too creative in entertaining yourself, and one of these days, it's going to backfire on you. Isn't that right, Spike?"

His mood was plummeting with every word from Buffy's mouth, and he did nothing to mask his scowl. "It was just a bloody game, Slayer," he said. "And I backed you up on it, didn't I?"

"You were also the one who hid upstairs while Holly and I did all the work," she replied. "Not to mention the one who tried enhancing Rudolph's fetish for women's underwear."

Holly frowned, turning to Spike. "What's a fetish?"

"It's when---."

"Spike! Topic, please!"

He crossed his arms over his chest, slouching back in his chair and deliberately propping up his feet on the table so that they partially obstructed Buffy's view of him. He may love the bloody bint, but this bossy side of her was one that he could take or leave. Preferably leave. Especially, when it was directed at him in such a condescending manner.

"So, considering the events of this morning, I think we need to have a rule about punishments. If someone does something wrong, they need to be punished for it. Agreed?"

She was looking at both of them with such expectation that Spike couldn't hold back the snort of derision. "You're talkin' to a vampire and a three-year-old girl, luv. You _really_ think either one of us is goin' to give you our blessing to do with us as you will?" He paused, a sudden image of Buffy in a black leather corset and stiletto-heeled boots with a whip in her hand springing to his head. "Well, one of us might," he conceded with a leer.

Her lips thinned. "If there's risk of punishment, we'll all be less inclined to do something wrong," she said. "And the same goes for me. If I do something wrong, I expect to get a punishment, too."

_Like that's about to happen._ Out loud, he just said, "There a point to any of this, Slayer? Because I think you've just wasted another of those days we've got left here with your little lecture."

"My point is, that Holly made up for her mess this morning." She turned to the little girl. "And since Spike skipped out on taking his share of responsibility and left you to do all the work, I think it's only fair that you be the one to punish him now."

His cry of "What the bloody fuck?" was almost overshadowed by Holly's squeal of delight, and Buffy held up her hands to quiet both of them.

"Just to show that I can be fair about this," she said, "we'll vote. Whoever thinks this is a good idea, raise her hand."

Spike scowled when Holly's arm shot upward so quickly she toppled sideways off her chair. "Don't think I won't remember this the next time someone wants some hot chocolate, you little turncoat," he groused as she clambered back on, her mood considerably lifted.

"Punishment wins," Buffy announced. "Now, what do you think it should be?"

"Make him eat an orange!"

He couldn't help but snicker at her enthusiasm. So maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"That's not really a punishment."

"Yes, it is. Oranges are yucky."

"Yeah, Slayer. You heard the girl. Oranges are yucky. Now, chuck one over and let's get this over with."

The look Buffy shot him silenced him yet again. "Spike likes oranges, so that won't really teach him a lesson, will it? Try something else."

Holly's brow wrinkled as she sank into deep thought. A minute passed, and then another, and Spike began to grow restless as they waited.

"Any minute now, Holly," Buffy prompted.

"He could run around the outside of the house a bajillion times."

In spite of his annoyance with Buffy's newfound desire to be Super Mom, it was impossible not to be amused by the little one. His lips quirked as he exchanged glances with Buffy, and he saw that she was enjoying this as well.

"Well, that's a good idea," she said, "except a bajillion is a lot, even for a vampire. And going outside now while the sun's out might be a _little_ extreme for the crime. How about we try something a little less combustible, OK? Something that he can do indoors."

"We could play sockpuppets. That's an inside thing."

Buffy's smile widened, just as Spike's disappeared. "I think that's an excellent idea. A day of sockpuppets. Just you and Spike." When Holly jumped from her chair and started to dash for the bedroom door, however, the Slayer's voice stopped her. "Not _my_ socks, though," she called out. She pointed to the loft. "Get some of Spike's."

"But…I don't do down."

"I'll come up and get you when you've got them," Buffy replied. "And while you're up there, could you get the book that Spike knocked underneath his dresser? I think he might forget about it if it gets left there, and that would be bad."

His stomach fell at the mention of his journal, and Spike dropped his eyes to the table when he felt Buffy turn hers to him. Bugger. So that's what this had all been about.

"Dirty pool, pet," he muttered, when Holly was safely upstairs and out of earshot.

Hopping off the counter, Buffy came and sat in the chair next to him, leaning forward to poke him none too gently in the chest. "It's your fault for being a stupidhead," she said.

"That one of your college words? Good to see your money's not bein' wasted."

"I mean it." She dropped her hand to his, feathering across the knuckles. "I don't know what you're so scared about. All I saw was your name, and the 'journal of' that kind of gave away what it was."

"Because you're goin' to want to read it. And if you read it, I can pretty much say good bye to this thing between me and you working out, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm gettin' more than a little attached to you, Buffy."

"But why? Did you write that I was fat or something?"

She seemed so honestly worried that that was the extent of his musings, Spike couldn't help but chuckle. "That would be the least of it, pet. That journal goes back a bit, but I left it with Dru when I took off that last time. So in the way of bitter rantings about the Slayer bein' a thorn in my side I wanted to rip out and shred to pieces? It's the piece de resistance."

"You could've just told me that." Blushing at the look of disbelief he leveled at her, Buffy added, "Well, at least you didn't have to go all kamikaze trying to get it away from me. You were a little obvious, Spike."

"So, is that what all this was about? You were just pissed because I didn't tell you what it was?"

"I'm not pissed. I'm hurt. You didn't trust me. I thought…after everything that's been going on here the past two days, I thought that trust was the one thing we'd got figured out. Didn't the letting you bite me kind of drive that home?"

She had a point, and Spike felt like a wanker for not giving her the benefit of the doubt. All he'd had to do was ask her not to read it and…nah, he would've reacted that way regardless. Having his personal thoughts and anything writing-related skewered so often over the past century made it an automatic response any more. And considering it was only the past week that Buffy was treating with any measure of respect, he didn't think his reaction was all that far off.

"Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, luv," he said. "But after havin' Angelus and Darla make me their own little laughingstock 'bout it, I'm more than a bit sensitive about the whole mess." He held up a warning finger. "And no, that doesn't give you permission to taunt me about bein' the sensitive type, so don't even think it."

"I've got it!"

Holly's voice drifted down to them from the loft, turning both of their heads to see her standing at the railing. "Be right there," Buffy called up. She cast a sideways glance at Spike. "Actually, Spike will be right there."

"Bloody sockpuppets," he muttered as he rose from the chair. He stopped when she laid a hand on his arm.

"I meant what I said. Do whatever you want with your journal. Hide it again, throw it away, make paper airplanes with the pages. They're your words, and if you want them private, then I'm going to respect that. I know I'd hate it if I had a diary and somebody was poking their nose around in it if I didn't want them to."

A slow grin curled his lips, and he stepped forward to grab her hip and pull her close to him. "Thank you, pet," he murmured before giving her a quick kiss. "Next time, I'll try not to be so quick with the leaping."

"Oh, I don't know." Her eyes danced in wicked amusement. "Sometimes your leaping is fun."

"Does this mean I don't have to be stuck playing Kukla, Fran, and Holly now?"

Buffy shoved him away good-naturedly, shaking her head. "No. _That's_ what you get for scamming out of helping her this morning."

"Bitch."

"Pig."

"Actually, she always makes me the bloody monkey."

"And that's so wrong why?"

He glared at her as he turned to head for the ladder, but they both knew it was put on. Inside, Spike wore a grin as wide as the ocean at the thought of Buffy trusting him with his own thoughts. The woman would never stop to amaze him, and he'd be damned if he was going to bugger this up now and lose that.

Even if it meant wearing socks on his hands to entertain the little one.

-----

The first thing she did was stop at Wal-Mart and pick up some new clothes, especially new shoes and socks. The clothes Joyce had brought were fine for the day-to-day, but for what she had planned now, she was going to need something a little more heavyduty. It was just a shame that California wasn't quite as prepared for heavyduty as she might've liked.

As she paid for her boots and thermals with the cash she'd pulled from her checking account, she squelched the pang of guilt that was already threatening to make her turn tail and return to the hotel. She had left her gallery credit card and a note for Rupert to use it to rent a car to get back to Sunnydale, and taken hers to resume her search for Buffy without the others. With the Watcher now being aware of Jenny's involvement, and Doyle's trust in her fractured because of her decision to rescue and include Paul, Joyce knew she was back to being on her own in this. It was up to her to make sure Buffy was all right until after the New Year.

Sitting in the Wal-Mart parking lot, she looked at the local map and surveyed her best possibility. All her talks with Doyle and the ghosts had led her to believe that she'd been all too close in finding Buffy when she'd been investigating the scene of the accident. According to the map, though, the only thing in that area was forest and more forest. Doyle had said they were safe; did they have them tucked away somewhere amidst all the trees? It had to be the only answer.

Back to the accident then. And hopefully, back to Buffy.

-----

Silas' eyes darted from the SUV pulling out of the parking lot to Maria sitting at his side. "Well?" he asked, as the distance began to lengthen between the two vehicles. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "What would you like me to do?"

She didn't respond. Instead, Maria closed her eyes and started murmuring under her breath, curling her right hand into a ball. When she was done, her lids lifted, revealing eyes swallowed in ebony, and her fingers suddenly splayed as if releasing some burning unknown in its palm. A flash made the car's interior all too hot for a split second, and then, it was gone.

Silas shivered. In spite of the weeks he had spent with her, the true extent of Maria's magic was only coming to light now, and the depth of it was nothing he'd seen before. Not even the Council's coven had seemed to manipulate their power as easily as Maria did, and he was beginning to wonder just why it was she had found it necessary to bring them into the fold.

"Go back to the hotel," she instructed. "We'll determine what it is Rupert and Paul are planning to do, and if it doesn't entail finding Holly, we'll resume following Mrs. Summers."

"But how?" He gestured futilely at the near-empty parking lot. "We don't know which direction she went."

"Yes, we do." Maria's voice was brittle. "Now. Are you going to continue to question the spell I just cast, or are you going to do as I instructed you and drive?"

It was impossible not to notice how angry she was with him. If she wasn't so insistent on using ordinary means to track the runaway Watchers---less likelihood of being detected, she'd stated---Silas had no doubts that she would dispose of him in the blink of an eye. His use to her without the others was minimal, and if he didn't want to risk being made completely redundant, he'd do exactly as he was told.

He drove.

To be continued in Chapter 46: Following Yonder Star…


	46. Following Yonder Star

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce has ditched Giles and the others to find Buffy on her own, while Buffy and Spike have had a brief talk about his journal and trust…

-----

Regardless of his protestations, Buffy watched Spike lose himself in the games with Holly, eventually turning his hands into killer vampire puppets and chasing her around the cabin with his fangs bared and socks at the ready.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Holly shrieked as she dove beneath a dining room chair.

"Never!" Spike growled. He reached forward and grabbed at a skinny ankle before it disappeared from his view, but the fact that his chip never went off told Buffy all she needed to know about their playing.

"No! Don't!" There was a streak of yellow, and then the bedroom door slammed shut, with Spike coming to a jerky halt before he smashed his nose into it.

"Little pidge, little pidge, let me in," he chanted as he leaned into the wood.

There was a pause.

"I don't think she knows that one," Buffy offered from where she was curled up in the corner of the couch.

"Sure, she does," he replied. "I've been tellin' her that bloody three little pigs story every day since she got here."

"You've been telling a three-year-old a story about a house coming down around her ears? And you wonder why she's been sleepwalking."

He shot her a dirty look and then leaned even closer to the door. "Little pidge, little pidge, let me in," Spike tried again.

"Was the Big Bad Wolf a vampire?" Buffy asked with a bright smile. "Is that why he had to ask for an invitation?"

"Shut up, Slayer."

Then, from the interior of the bedroom, she heard, "Not by the chair on my finny fin fin."

Buffy and Spike exchanged a frown before he shrugged.

"Close enough." Back to the door, and in his best growly voice, "Then, I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."

"Don't you need---."

"Slay_er_!"

She just grinned. But as the silence grew from the other side of the door, she leaned forward to try and see past where Spike blocked the entrance to the bedroom. "Did she hear you?" she asked.

"Don't know." As he reached for the knob, though, it twisted beneath his grasp and a flash of yellow came darting out between his legs, knocking him over as Holly dashed for the other side of the table.

"Missed me!" she squealed.

"Spike lost to a three-year-old," Buffy singsonged, turning back to the book she wasn't reading in her lap.

He stopped in mid-stride. "When was the last time you patrolled, Slayer?" he asked, pointedly.

Their eyes met, and she smiled. "Fine, I can take a hint." She rose, stretching until her back audibly cracked. "It's not like I've been getting any kind of workout from anything inside for the past week."

"And keep that up and you won't get any more, either."

She was still smiling when she shut the cabin door behind her. As she did up her jacket against the cooler air, all Buffy could imagine was how she was going to get Spike when she returned from her patrol.

-----

He was woken by an urgent hand on his shoulder.

"Rupert! Rupert, you must wake up! Rupert!"

Grumpily, Giles swatted at the offending limb, and rolled over to blink into the too-bright light that was mounted next to the bed. "You better have a bloody good reason for this," he growled at Paul's blurry outline. He fumbled for his glasses. "I'd thought we were going to sleep until Joyce woke us."

"That's just it," came the reply. "Mrs. Summers is gone."

It was enough to shake Giles from his stupor. His dreams had been unsettling, an odd amalgam of nightmares regarding Angelus and Jenny, with Maria hovering in the background, but the apprehension that had twisted throughout his body throughout dissolved at the more critical situation currently at hand.

Pushing back the blanket, he noted the mid-afternoon time as he rose, grabbing the shirt he'd folded over the back of a nearby chair. "Did you try her room?" Giles asked. "Perhaps she's just sleeping heavily."

"Her car is gone. And she left a note for you with the hotel clerk. He said she's already checked out."

Giles snatched the envelope Paul proffered, tearing open the seal and pulling out the piece of paper inside. A credit card slipped from within the folds, but he tucked it into his pocket as he quickly scanned its contents.

"What is it?" Paul couldn't keep his hands from twisting as he watched Giles toss the letter aside and storm over to his shoes. "Is something wrong?"

"Bloody woman," Giles muttered. Louder, he ordered, "Pack your things. We're leaving."

"But…how? Is she coming back? What's going on?"

"We're renting a car, no, she's not coming back, and she's decided we're both fools who are standing in her way of helping Buffy." Giles swore under his breath as he caught his toe on the shoe, sliding his foot before trying to put it on again. "She's gone off to find Buffy again. Apparently, she's decided that we are excess baggage she needed to shed before doing so."

"Was it because of the disagreement you had?"

He was pulled up short by Paul's query, his brow wrinkling. "It's because she's a very stubborn woman who doesn't understand that there are certain things beyond her means," he said tightly. "It was foolhardy of her to leave without us."

"But, weren't you the one who was telling me that your Slayer gets many of her stronger qualities from her mother?"

Giles pursed his lips. He hated it when his own words were thrown back in his face. "Apparently, common sense wasn't one of them."

Paul remained still as Giles continued to organize their few belongings. "Not that I wish to argue with you about this---."

"Then don't."

"What are your intentions? You're not considering---."

A knock at the door stilled both of them, their heads turning to stare at it as if an arrival was the last thing they expected. Giles was the first to move, a toothbrush in his hand as he closed the distance to answer it.

The sight of Maria and Silas on the other side immediately had him trying to slam it, but a sharp bolt of magic from her outstretched hand sent him flying back into the room to crumple at the foot of the bed.

"Really," she commented as she crossed the threshold, "I wonder how it is you can have such atrocious manners, Mr. Giles. I'd heard your education was impeccable." She smiled at Paul, a cold rictus of an expression. "Stop gaping. It's rude."

Giles shook his head as he struggled to sit up, his chest sore from where the magic had slammed into him, his balance shaky from the impact. "We're onto you," he said to Maria. Even through his discomfort, there was a menace to his voice. "You won't play us as your patsies any longer."

Silas' foot shoved him back as he tried to rise, and though Giles knew he was stronger and in better shape than the other Watcher, the impact of his fall had weakened him to the point of bowing to the larger man.

"But we're partners," Maria was saying. Gently, she closed the door behind her. "Or we were, until you so boldly decided that you'd changed your mind regarding our mission."

"_Your_ mission," he spat. "If memory serves, I was abducted."

"And you chose to stay. That is, until Mrs. Summers arrived. However did she persuade you to leave in such an abrupt manner? Don't tell me there's more to your relationship than the professional one you hold with her daughter."

Giles' eyes burned as he fought to control his rage. "She told us the truth. Funny, but I find myself much more willing to cooperate with someone who is honest with me than one who is not." He was going to ignore Joyce's lie of omission regarding Jenny. There was no way he was going to divulge any information regarding the ghosts to Maria.

"Does that truth entail informing you where her daughter is?" She wasn't giving up. Perching herself on the edge of a chair, she seemed oblivious to Paul's presence completely, though when Giles stole a quick glance at the young man, he could see that it didn't matter. Paul was completely spellbound in his fear of the woman.

When Giles didn't respond right away, Maria sighed. "I know she's left," she said. "I watched her go. What I need for you to tell me is where she's going."

"You're off your box if you think I'm going to cooperate with you again in any way."

She shook her head, her eyes gleaming in displeasure. "There is more than one way to skin a cat, Mr. Giles. And I know them all, especially those that leave the cat…screaming."

-----

Enough was enough, Doyle decided. He'd lounged around in the local watering hole for as long as he could stand, waiting for Joyce or one of her Watcher boy scouts to come and get him for their post-nap confab. Normally, he would've been overjoyed at the prospect of such an extended length of time in favorite type of establishment, but his temporary corporeal status was proving more of a headache than it was worth. He kept having to order drinks only to watch them go untouched, all because the bloody Powers hadn't seen fit to toss eating and drinking into the mix when they'd come up with their grand scheme. A man could only take so much torture.

He was halfway to the hotel when he felt it. A mixture of excruciating pressure on his skull and a sizzling beneath his skin, the magic left a trail that made it impossible for him not to notice. Doyle stopped, head darting around while he tried to discern from which direction it was coming. He almost groaned out loud when he realized it was the hotel.

Breaking into a run, he'd just reached the bottom of the stairs that led to Joyce's room when Tara appeared before him a few steps up. She wouldn't have been able to stop him, but he skidded to a halt anyway. He didn't have a problem with being walked through when he was more ghostly, but he knew it bothered her.

The look on her face said more than she could've ever uttered aloud.

"Are they dead?" he asked, already expecting the worst. When she shook her head, he sagged in relief. "Hopefully Joyce is giving her what-for. That woman---."

"Joyce is gone."

His gaze snapped back up. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"Not here."

"Where?" He stopped, already knowing the answer. "Do me a favor and just give me a pretty lie to hold onto for a few seconds. Something to take the sting away from knowing I pushed her back into looking for the Slayer."

"How about I distract you instead?" Tara glanced back up over her shoulder, and there was no mistaking the worry that clouded her eyes. "Maria has Mr. Giles and the other Watcher cornered. We have to get them away from her before she figures out where Buffy went."

"I can't defeat her magic. And you're not corporeal to try."

"Then we create a diversion and do it the old-fashioned way. We don't have much time."

Grimly, Doyle stepped back and surveyed his surroundings. The hotel was an older model, with minimal vacancy at the moment. He had to be careful about potentially hurting anybody else in the building.

"Give me five minutes," he instructed Tara as he turned on his heel. "I'll get them out of there."

At least, he hoped he would.

-----

Giles was convinced that Silas had put rocks in his shoes prior to arriving.

Every time Maria asked Giles a question that he refused to answer, Silas kicked him in the stomach, and now he was quite regretting not killing the bastard when he'd had the opportunity that day in Maria's library. He was already steeling himself against the sixth blow when a muffled explosion emanated from outside the room, followed immediately by some sort of ringing alarm.

Frowning, Maria rose from her seat and strode to the door, opening it up to step out into the sunshine. Beyond her petite form, Giles could see smoke wafting into the sky, and took advantage of Silas' distraction to push himself upright in spite of the pain in his midsection.

"What is it?" Silas asked, coming up behind Maria to peer over her shoulder.

She didn't answer. Instead, she moved out onto the path, and her sharp intake of breath was audible.

"Do I smell smoke?" Paul said, rabbiting forward with his first movement since Maria's arrival.

Sure enough, Giles could now, too. Sharp, and acrid, and all of a sudden, there was smoke visible floating in wispy drafts around the entranceway. "The building's on fire," he said through gritted teeth. He struggled to stand, all the while holding his stomach. "One of your interrogation tactics, Maria?"

The look she shot him was deadly. "I would hardly blow up my own vehicle," she said.

Unbidden, Giles' mouth twisted into a smile. "I think that's the first good bit of news I've had all day," he said.

Another explosion rocked the air, and the distinct sound of fire trucks trickled through the boom. Running steps came down the outer walkway, and the hotel clerk appeared.

"Have to…evacuate…" he huffed. His face was red from the exertion of running to tell them, and his breath came in rapid gusts. "Fire…downstairs…spreading…" Without waiting for an invitation, he took Maria's elbow as if she was an elderly woman about to cross the street on her own and began leading her back in the direction from which he'd come.

Silas followed, with Paul close on his heels, but Giles grabbed the younger Watcher's arm before he could get too far.

"This way," Giles whispered, jerking his head in the opposite direction.

"But…the fire…"

"Which would you rather face, a fire or Maria's inquisition?"

There was only a moment's hesitation before Paul reversed his path to come after Giles, and the two quickly ran as far from their would-be captors as they could.

-----

Tara was surveying the damage across the street when Doyle darted between the fire trucks to saunter to her side. "A little…dramatic, don't you think?" she said with a wry smile.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it? _And_ I knocked out Maria's transportation, so I'd call it pretty darn clever if I do say so myself."

"But…car bombs?"

"Molotov cocktails, actually. I'm a resourceful fella."

"And the second car you blew up?"

Doyle stuffed his hands into his pockets. "The guy deserved it," he said, with a shrug. "I'm pretty sure he was here cheating on his wife. No way can someone that bald and that stubby have a twenty-something blonde on his arm. I was doing his wife a favor."

"Uh huh."

"You going to keep an eye on Maria?"

Tara shook her head. "Jenny is. I'm going to go see if I can talk to Joyce before she does something even more foolish."

"Then I've got the Watchers." He was already headed back in the direction of the hotel when he shot back over his shoulder, "Tell Joyce she missed all the fireworks."

-----

Extra socks did little to keep her feet warm as Joyce trudged through the snow. She was beginning to regret her decision to search the forest; all she'd seen were trees, snow, and a lake that had frozen over. There was no sign of civilization, and even worse, she wasn't entirely sure which direction was the road any more. She'd left her car parked nearly in the ditch to take her hunt on foot, but with the sun quickly nosing the horizon, she knew she should get back to it and safety before it got too late.

She stopped in her tracks, and looked at the dense forest around her, a blur of black, and white, and brown, and shadows. Everything looked the same.

It was already too late.

She just hoped Giles was having a better time than she was.

-----

The forest was dead.

Not literally, of course, though the barren trees certainly gave that impression, but Buffy hadn't even seen a squirrel as she'd patrolled the perimeter of their barricade. No slaying and all walking made for a very cranky Slayer.

With way too much energy to expend on a certain vampire when she got back to the cabin.

Veering off her path, Buffy began the trek back to the house, her thoughts occupied by naked Spike, and the way his tongue curled against the roof of his mouth when he was being all sexy, and the curl in his hair that he continuously fought. She didn't notice the footprints in the snow until she'd stepped into one, and then stopped, looking down at the track with a frown.

It was human. Could be vampire.

She twisted her ankle so that her foot lined up with the print and noted the closeness in size.

A female vampire.

Her head snapped up, Slayer senses on alert as she scanned the growing dimness. She couldn't sense anything but since these were on the inside of the barricade, that meant the vamp was still on the loose. She had to track it before it proved to be a real threat.

The footprints went in circles, with no rhyme or reason to its path. It looked almost as if the vampire had been lost, but as Buffy skirted the edge of the lake, following the tracks back in the direction of the cabin, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something not quite right about the situation. She wasn't getting any kind of tinglies at all, and with so little else in the forest to distract her, she would've thought that was impossible. Had it figured out a way to get past the magical perimeter? No, it couldn't have. It was just stuck like they were, and trying to find a way out.

It was nearly dark when she heard the crack of a stick off to her left. Stealthily, Buffy crept toward it, straining her ears for any other telltale signs.

She saw it before she heard it again, though. Well, she saw its coat. And its trailing scarf. And was that a mitten? Buffy frowned. A vampire that bundled up against the cold? That was a first.

It paused in its walking, and Buffy took the opportunity to circle around to its front. Without a sound, she leapt to a low-hanging branch, and waited for it to move beneath her.

It took a moment for it to resume its path, but as soon as it was close enough, Buffy sprang forward, tackling the vampire around the waist and sending them both into face-first into the snow.

A female shout rang in Buffy's ears, and she twisted around in order to get a better hold on the demon. Her fingers brushed against warm skin when her hand wrapped its wrist, and she stopped in mid-crush.

Warm.

Not a vampire. Human.

"Ow!" the woman said, prompting Buffy to release her grip and stumble back onto her ass to get away from the voice she recognized all too well.

"Mom?"

To be continued in Chapter 47: We're Snuggled Up Together…


	47. We're Snuggled Up Together

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Doyle has created a distraction to get Giles and Paul away from Maria, while Buffy has found Joyce in the forest outside the cabin…

-----

Adrenaline only got him so far before he had to rely on Paul's assistance to get him any further. As they ran from the conflagration that was consuming the hotel behind them, Giles saw Maria and Silas being relegated with the few other guests by the firemen who now seemed to be crawling around the premises like an army of ants. She looked annoyed, but it appeared as if every attempt she made to step free from the fracas was thwarted by a uniform of one sort or another.

When they reached the edge of the parking lot, away from the worst of the crowd, Paul stopped, his lungs audibly exhausted from rushing. "Must…rest…" he panted, and nearly toppled when Giles clouted the back of his head.

"Considering how quickly Maria found us when we had resources," Giles snapped, "you must be daft if you think this is sufficient to escape her now."

"Good thing you've got me then," Doyle said, jogging up from across the street to meet them on the edge of the tarmac. "First things first, we need to get you two as far from here as we can."

"That would be much easier if we had a car," Giles replied.

"You don't look so good, man."

"Silas was interrogating him," Paul explained. "With his feet."

"Ouch." Doyle frowned and quickly scanned the parking lot. "So, we need a pair of wheels then. Follow me."

As he led them to the nearest car, he whistled beneath his breath, prompting Giles to ask, "Are you not even going to inquire about Joyce?"

Doyle shrugged. "Joyce took off hours ago. Looks like we're all on our lonesome now." He stopped before a white Corvette and grinned. "It means we can travel in style now."

"You must be joking."

"I never joke when it comes to the classics." His smile widened when the door opened. "And this, my dear friend, is a classic."

Giles could only watch as the ghost's head disappeared below the dash. A moment later, the engine roared to life. "How do you propose we fit in this?" he demanded. "There are three of us and only two seats."

"We're not going far," Doyle assured. Reaching across the interior, he slid the passenger seat back as far as it would go. "I suggest you flip to see who is sitting on whose lap. Or there's always the trunk."

Giles and Paul exchanged quick glances, each assessing the other's weight and height without saying a word.

"C'mon, c'mon, we don't have all day," Doyle pushed. He slipped behind the steering wheel and stroked the leather of the dash. "Though I'm more than happy to take my time if that means I get to drive this beauty a little longer."

"You'll face forward," Giles instructed Paul with a warning finger. "And be careful of your elbows. The last thing I need is one of those adding to Silas' handiwork."

Giles closed his eyes as he took his position in the passenger seat, wincing when Paul squeezed his lanky form onto Giles' lap. There was no room for all of their legs, and the younger man was forced to draw his knees up to his chest in order for the door to close properly.

"I'd say, buckle up," Doyle said with a chuckle, "but that would be a bit silly, now wouldn't it?"

"Just drive," Giles said through gritted teeth. He felt the car begin to move beneath him, wincing again when a wide turn drove Paul's heel into his thigh.

"Sorry," came the apology.

This was all Joyce's fault, he thought. More than anything else, this particular indignity was the worst part of her abandoning them. He would have a few words to say to her when this entire debacle was over.

-----

It took only a moment of stunned silence before Buffy had her arms back around her mother, this time in a fierce hug.

"What're you doing here? How'd you find me? Is Giles with you? You're not hurt, right? Christmas wasn't the same without you…"

And the babble went on and on, even as Joyce started laughing and pulled Buffy's arms away from around her neck.

"You act like you've been cut off completely from civilization for two weeks," she joked. "We both know better than that, don't we? How is Spike? Not dust, right?"

For a moment, Buffy froze as thoughts of her new relationship came slamming back into her consciousness. "You know?" she asked, wide-eyed. "How do you know?"

"A certain ghost called Doyle," came the reply. Looking around at the trees that surrounded them, she added, "So, are you going to make me stand out here in the cold while I find out what happened to you, or are you going to take me to wherever it is you've been keeping yourself safe? I don't know about you, but my toes are freezing."

"Oh! There's a cabin!" After a quick scan to determine her bearings, she pointed off to her left. "Back there. You can warm up by the fire."

They began walking through the snow, their arms around each other's waists. Buffy hadn't realized just how much she'd missed her mom until she was back, and now, feeling her warmth pressed into her side and smelling her faint perfume, it overwhelmed her with sentiment.

"You're stuck now, you know," Buffy said as they trudged through the snow. "There's a magical thingamabob that won't let us out of this part of the forest until after New Year's Eve."

"How did I get in, then?"

"As far as we've been told, it works on a one-way system. You can check in, but you can't check out. Well, until New Year's Eve, at least."

"That would explain why you're still here, though Doyle did say you and Spike were helping to protect that Holly."

"How'd you find Doyle?"

"Actually, he found me."

Buffy listened as her mother started telling about what had happened to her over the past few days, but she'd only reached the point of meeting up with Doyle in the bar when the cabin suddenly appeared before them. "Home sweet not-quite-home," she announced. "It's not much, but it's warm, and Spike's great with the fire. It always manages to start going out when I try and stoke it."

As if he'd heard his name, the front door was flung open to reveal the vampire in the entrance, Holly clinging to his back.

"Took you long enough," he teased. "Thought I'd have to---." He cut himself off when he saw Joyce, and he stiffened as he cast a wary glance at Buffy.

"Who's that?" Holly asked loudly.

"Slayer's mum." He cleared his throat, turning back to the house. "Best get back inside before you catch cold, moptop. Slayer will have my hide if I keep you out here any longer."

Joyce's jaw was dropped as she watched the pair disappear back inside. "That's Holly?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"But she's just a baby."

"She's three, actually. You were expecting Grandma Moses?"

Joyce shook her head. "I just didn't think she'd be so young. Rupert must not be aware of her age, either, otherwise he never would've doubted me."

Together, they climbed the steps to the cabin. "How much do you know about what we're doing here?" Buffy asked when they reached the door.

"Enough, I think," Joyce replied. "But it'll be good to compare notes so that we know exactly what to expect."

Buffy's eyes widened as they stepped into the house. Sitting primly on the end of the couch, Holly was staring at the door as if she expected the boogeyman to come jumping through it at any minute, while Spike was busying himself in the kitchen. The soft gurgle of water starting to boil was followed by the sounds of cups being set on the counter, and Buffy caught his eye for a moment before he turned away again, flashing him a pleased smile.

Crouching down in front of the little girl, Joyce smiled gently. "Hello," she said. "Now, who are you?"

She looked to Buffy for approval before replying. "Holly," she said. "Are you really Buffy's mommy?"

"I am. But you can call me Joyce if you want."

"Are you here to take Buffy away?"

"Oh, no, sweetie. I just came because I was worried about her."

Holly jerked, suddenly fearful. "Spike would never hurt Buffy!" she exclaimed. "Spike lo---."

"---is making us tea!" Buffy interrupted. No way could she let a little mouth blab about the depth of her newfound relationship with Spike. "Mom, why don't you make sure he's doing it the way you like it, OK?"

The corner of Joyce's mouth lifted. "You want me to try and correct an Englishman on how to make tea?" she commented.

Spike snorted in amusement, and then coughed as he tried to cover it up.

"Relax, Buffy," Joyce continued. "Sit down. Holly and I are just getting acquainted, aren't we, Holly?"

The little girl nodded, and Buffy could only sigh as her mother took the seat next to the child.

"I think you and I have a mutual acquaintance," Joyce said to Holly. At the girl's confused look, she elaborated, "A common friend."

"Who?"

"Doyle. He's the one who told me you were with Buffy."

Holly immediately brightened again. "You saw Doyle? Is he OK? I miss him. He has the best songs! Did he sing for you? I like the one about Mrs. Durkin best."

Not only Joyce was amused by the little girl's exuberance. Buffy giggled at the possibility of what the song he'd been singing had _actually_ been about, relaxing a little as she hung her coat up and settled in.

"No, Doyle didn't sing for me," Joyce was saying. "But I'll be sure to ask him about it the next time I see him."

"Spike sings, too," Holly said. "'Cept his songs don't sound like songs."

"Hey!" The vampire's head whipped around, his gaze indignant. "Thought someone said they _liked_ the Ramones."

Taking a moment to look around, Joyce's gaze lingered on the makeshift decorations before settling on the Christmas tree, her eyes going upward to its star. "At least you didn't have to miss the holidays by being here," she said, though this time, her comment was directed more to Buffy than the child.

"Santa came, too," Holly said. She hopped up from the couch and grabbed Joyce's hand. "Wanna see my toys?"

"OK."

She began leading Joyce to the bedroom. "They're in my room. This is where I sleep. Buffy and Spike sleep up there." She pointed upward to the loft. "But I don't go up there any more unless Buffy says so. I don't do down."

Buffy felt her stomach drop as her mother shot a look over her shoulder before disappearing into the bedroom with Holly. It was one of those patented, "If I heard what I _think_ I heard, you and I will have some serious talking to do later, young lady," looks that Joyce was so good at.

"Well, this is interestin'," Spike commented, coming up behind her. When he tried to slip his arm around her waist, however, she yanked away, whirling to face him with wide eyes.

"Are you kidding me?" she said, her hands on her hips. "My _mom_ is in the next room! Now is not the time for hanky or panky until I get a chance to talk to her, OK?"

His mouth settled into a sulk. "Don't see what the big deal is," he said, plopping down to the couch. "Your mum likes me. She's goin' to be thrilled for you."

"Oh, thrilled, yeah, if that means pissed off in this alternate dimension you seem to have fallen into. Have you forgotten getting beaned by an axe? And you weren't sleeping with her daughter then."

His brow furrowed with the memory. "Good point."

"Just behave until I get a chance to explain it all, all right?" Glancing back at the closed door, Buffy risked leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to Spike's mouth. "Play nice and maybe you'll get out of here with all your body parts intact."

"That's OK. I'll just hide the axe outside so that she can't chop off my head."

"If I were you, it wouldn't be my head I'd be worried about."

-----

Though she watched them steadily throughout the simple dinner she helped Spike fix and after while they played with Holly, it wasn't until he was tucking the little girl into bed that Joyce brought up the subject directly with Buffy.

"So," she said, as the two women settled on the couch, "do you want to tell me what exactly is going on here?"

Buffy affected her best innocent face. "We're protecting Holly from Maria," she said brightly. "Remember?"

"I meant, with you and Spike."

Her eyes flickered to the closed door. She knew he was hiding away from the potential grilling and only wished she could use the same excuse he was. "He saved my life," Buffy said. Her tone was wary. "He could've just left me in the car to die after the accident, but he didn't. I…gave him a second chance after that."

"By sleeping with him."

It wasn't a question, and Buffy ducked her head at the disappointment in her mother's voice. "It's not what you think---."

"When I told you to be nicer to Spike, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"It's not like that!" At Joyce's frown, she took a deep breath. "I did what you said. In the beginning. We were stuck here, and I was hurt, and---."

"Wait a minute. You were hurt? How badly?"

"Pretty bad. And Spike patched me up. He just seemed…different, and we started talking, and you know, actually communicating instead of fighting, and I realized…he's not so bad."

"And this 'not so bad' assessment meant that it was all right to have sex with him."

Buffy cringed. Sex talks with her mom never turned out well. In fact, if she could live until she was sixty and never hear her mother use the word "sex" again, Buffy would be one happy Slayer.

"I didn't just fall into bed with him, like you're thinking," she argued. "Give me a little credit for not making _that_ mistake again."

"So you waited…what, a week?" Joyce shook her head. "I'm disappointed in you, Buffy. After everything that happened with Angel, I would've thought you'd learned your lesson."

"Spike is _not_ Angel."

"He's still a vampire, though. And as much as I might like him, he can't give you what you need."

Buffy lifted her leg to sit cross-legged on the couch so that she could face her mother directly. "What is that exactly? Since you seem to know so well what my needs are."

Joyce's lips thinned. "Don't take that tone of voice with me, young lady."  
"But what am I supposed to do? I took your advice, Mom. I put aside all the history and gave Spike a chance. Partially for my own sanity, because, hello, we are kind of snowbound here, but more because I thought he deserved it after all the life save-age. Did you know he carried me through the snowstorm until we found this place? And he stopped me from getting frostbite, and from setting myself on fire when I was sick, and…" She stopped when she saw Joyce's brow had quirked at the growing list.

"You know what I found out?" Buffy asked, changing tactics. "Spike can be pretty darn amazing when he wants to be. He's smart, even though he pretends he's not, and he's funny as hell, and you saw him with Holly. She adores him. Doesn't that count for anything?" She took a deep breath. "I know you want me to have this perfect future, Mom, but let's face it. Odds are not in my favor that it's going to be a very long one. Why can't I just take what happiness I can find now? Especially with someone who's proven that he cares about me."

"He's still a vampire, Buffy---."

"And I'm still the Slayer. He's taking just as big of a risk as I am in putting his trust in me. That's gotta count for something with you."

They were silenced by the bedroom door opening again, and the subject in question sauntering out. "Went out like a light," Spike announced. "Think I wore Moptop out today."

"You're very good with her," Joyce said. "I must say, I'm impressed."

He shrugged, a grin curving his lips. "What can I say? Birds love me."

Silently, Buffy groaned at the cocky attitude he was displaying, not even noticing until he was standing in front of them that he'd grabbed her coat and was handing it out to her.

"We goin' to go find that Fyarl that was terrorizing the little one yesterday?" he asked.

She frowned. "Huh?"

""Less you found it when you went out to patrol. Then we can just stay in and have a hot cuppa." He looked to Joyce. "Big nasty thing kept tryin' to break into the house couple nights ago. Gave Pidge all sorts of nightmares. Slayer here was s'posed to try trackin' it down this afternoon, but I think finding you cut her search short."

Buffy was about to start questioning whether his blood had gone bad and short-circuited his memory, when she met his innocent gaze and realized what it was he was doing.

"Oh," she said. "_That_ Fyarl. No, I didn't find it, which means we should probably get out there and kill it tonight before it tries attacking again." When she rose and took her coat from him, there was a moment where their fingers brushed, her skin tingling at just the slight contact. She couldn't risk meeting his eyes again, but when she turned her back to him to face her mom, Spike's hand crept surreptitiously between them to settle at the small of her back.

"You're OK watching Holly until we get back, right?" she asked Joyce.

"Well, of course, but---."

"We won't be gone long," Buffy promised, and leaned down to give her mother a kiss on the cheek. "But we have to make sure everything's safe, especially now that you're here." She led the way to the door, only looking back when they reached the threshold.

"I'm really glad you found us," she said softly, a faint smile on her lips. "And please, trust me. I know what I'm doing."

With that, she went out into the cold night, Spike directly on her heels.

-----

Thankfully, Doyle didn't drive for long. As soon as they found a small garage that also rented cars, Giles and Paul insisted that he pull over so that they could put Joyce's credit card to good use. One swift negotiation later---which wasn't actually a negotiation because the young woman in charge of the rentals seemed all too eager to serve them once she heard their accents---and the trio were on the road again in a used Taurus.

They argued along the way regarding their destination. Doyle was of the opinion that everyone was much better off in Sunnydale until after the New Year, but as Giles was the one behind the steering wheel at this point, he was the one making the decision. He knew Joyce considered Buffy to be somewhere near where the accident had occurred, and it was his intention to try and intercept her. Perhaps they would find Buffy; perhaps they wouldn't. But he wasn't about to let her go stumbling into it alone. She wasn't prepared to deal with such dangerous matters like either Buffy or himself, and he wouldn't have any potential harm to her occur when he could do something about it.

His ribs had a slightly different plan, however.

As they neared the town where Giles had had the accident, Doyle's protestations getting more vociferous and more outlandish by the mile, Giles' breathing began to labor. The muscles in his chest were seizing from the stiff posture of driving for so long, and it was becoming impossible to steer the wheel effectively.

"I believe we're going to have to stop for the night," he announced when he saw a hotel sign loom on the horizon.

Doyle seemed relieved, but Paul frowned.

"If you need a reprieve---," the young Watcher started.

"No. I need to lie down," Giles said. He angled the nose of the car into the parking lot, breathing a sigh of relief when he was able to park and lower his arms.

"I'll get us a room," Doyle volunteered. "Just one, though. If Maria decides to come looking for you again, I can feel her magic before she gets too close. We'll have a chance to escape then."

Giles merely nodded. Leaning back into his seat, he closed his eyes as he tried to ignore the pain in his abdomen and chest. Wherever she was, a small, spiteful part of him hoped that Joyce was suffering for her independence as much as he was.

An even bigger part hoped that she was all right.

To be continued in Chapter 48: It Came Upon a Midnight Clear…


	48. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Giles and Paul have gotten away with Doyle, while Joyce has settled in at the cabin…

-----

Though his body screamed in protest, Spike waited until the cabin was out of sight before grabbing Buffy by the upper arms and shoving her up against the nearest tree.

"What…?" she started to say.

But she was silenced by the force of his mouth crashing to hers, his body wanting and hard pushing her into the rough bark. He almost broke when her fingers lifted to coil in his hair, pulling him closer as her lips matched his. It was hard to fool himself into thinking this was a temporary thing for her when the echoes of what he'd overheard inside were so quickly followed by her demanding need.

"My mom," she gasped when she broke for air. A slim hand feebly gestured in the direction of the house. "Just…inside the cabin."

"Which is why we're out here." Releasing his grip on her arms, Spike slid his hands down Buffy's sides to settle at her hips, grinding his pelvis and aching erection against her stomach. His mouth dropped to the small spot beneath her ear. "Heard what you told her," he whispered. "Heard every word."

Buffy stilled within his arms. "Did I say something wrong?"

He chuckled. "Said everything right."

Her hot breath slivered down his neck, clouding in the cooler air to send wispy tendrils to curl before his eyes when his mouth returned to hers. The heat of those tremulous puffs of air were nothing compared to the inferno of her tongue as it swirled around his, inviting and as hungry as the longing he'd been stoking ever since Buffy had defended him for all and sundry to hear.

"You know…she knows," Buffy said in between kisses. "What…we're doing out here."

"Don't bloody care." His teeth caught her bottom lip and tugged when she tried to pull away, a single hand lifting to the back of her neck to demand it if need be. Groaning when she slid a hand between their torsos to curl around his denim-covered erection, Spike attacked her mouth with a renewed fervor, not even noticing when the force with which he pressed her back into the tree knocked some snow loose to rain about their heads.

"You should." Another kiss, longer and deeper and oh so ravenous that it left her panting and gazing up at him with black eyes. "Friends and family," she said. "Part of the whole Buffy Summers package."

Letting his grip in her hair go, Spike traced a path along her jaw, down the front of her jacket, and inside the waistband of her pants to find the hot moisture already seeping through her panties. "This part of the package, too?" he crooned, tilting his head and just savoring the way Buffy's throat convulsed as she swallowed, the hypnotic pounding of her pulse in the tender hollow. He could have it if he wanted. She'd let him. All he had to do was ask.

But as powerful as the desire to taste her again was, the satisfaction he'd gained in hearing her declare her complete trust to the one person who meant the most to her was greater. There was no way he'd supplant that with his own base needs. He loved the bloody bird too much for that.

Didn't mean he couldn't still get a taste of her, though. Just a different kind.

Removing his hand from her pants, Spike ignored Buffy's whimper at the loss and returned to kissing her, distracting her with long, sweeping motions of his tongue and lips as he took her wrists and guided her hands to the low branch just over her head. Buffy yanked back slightly when he curled her fingers around the limb, and he chuckled, a wicked grin playing on his mouth.

"Hang on," he said, and let go, crouching down before her to swiftly undo her pants.

"Cold! Cold!" Buffy shrieked when the winter air hit her bare thighs.

He was standing again before she could react, his hands strong on hers. "Don't," he warned. "Trust me."

She immediately relaxed, though a small line appeared between her brows as she waited for whatever it was he had planned next.

Dropping back to his knees, Spike pushed her pants down past her knees, and then grasped her shivering hips. He lifted her up, and ducked his head so that her trousers-bound calves were behind his neck and the back of her thighs rested on his shoulders. Even better, her lovely wet quim was just inches from his mouth, and he salivated as the scent of her arousal became all that stronger.

He couldn't warm her with his body heat, but he could use what he could to shield her from the cold, curving his arms around her thighs and stroking up and down along the goose-bumped flesh. Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth to the dampness of her underwear and just sucked, the faint tang of her juices rousing him even more than he had been.

Around his shoulders, Buffy's legs tightened, drawing him closer in silent demand for more. Letting his fangs extend, Spike sliced the delicate fabric, exposing her even more, and smiled when she gasped at the sudden chill. "I can always stop if you're too cold," he said, pretending to pull away.

With a harsh tug, her calves drew him back to her heat. "Then you'd better make sure I stay warm," she replied.

"My pleasure," Spike murmured. His tongue slipped between her slick folds, and he focused his senses on listening to the torturous rhythms of her body, letting the pounding of her heart and the racing of her blood set his tempo. Up and down, around and around, and every swipe and every lick added a beat to her cascading pulse until his skin vibrated along with her.

She ground against his mouth, trying to focus his attention on her clit, but Spike taunted her with only the barest of nips at the sensitive nub before returning to his feast. He could keep this up all night, just drinking her down and---.

"Spike," Buffy hissed.

He was jerked forward when her legs tensed even more. "Bossy wench," he murmured, but knew she couldn't hear him over her ragged breathing. Tearing one hand away from the strength of her thigh, he pulled it back into his body so that he could begin stroking her opening, sliding a single finger in and out as he continued lapping at her juices.

Slowly, Buffy began moving her hips, lifting them and then letting them fall as she fucked herself with his finger. When he added a second and then a third, her gyrations grew more frenetic, her skin rasping against the bark, and one of her hands released the branch overhead to tangle in Spike's hair.

As soon as he felt her touch, Spike broke away from the draw of her pussy, rising back to his feet as he fumbled with his fly. He had little room to move; the circle of her legs, closed by her pants caught at her ankles, was tight around his hips, but determination and desire made him struggle to make it work. Pulling out his cock, Spike gave it a strong pump before guiding it to her opening, and then dropped his head to her shoulder when she fell from the limb to slam down the length of his shaft.

"Buffy…" he groaned, and held still as he felt her mold around his length. The contrast between the chilly bite in the air and the sultry moisture of her quim was making Spike shiver, and he had to cup her ass to steady himself as he slowly began to slide in and out.

He didn't want it to end. If it wasn't for the cold, he'd keep his Slayer out all night so that he could keep her wrapped around him, on him, in him, skin to skin and flesh to flesh. He hadn't completely expected her to defend him so vigorously to her mother, and then hearing the words…

Spike buried his face in her neck as she clung to his back, her strong thighs around his hips so tightly he feared she'd snap him in half. "Love you…" he murmured. "So much…"

"Me, too," Buffy whispered. Her teeth nipped at his ear, before traveling down his neck to bite at the curve just bared at his t-shirt.

Faster and harder, harder and faster, until all he could feel was Buffy, and all he could smell was Buffy, and nothing else mattered in the space beyond their arms. The force of his driving her against the tree rubbed his hands against the bark, and though he felt the first tricklings of blood start to drip from his knuckles, he went on, taking the pain and powering it into his thrusts, listening to her gasp and moan and whisper his name for more.

He came first, though he so desperately wanted to wait until she had, and as he shot deep within her pussy, Spike released a single hold on her bottom to reach between their torsos and pinch her clit.

Buffy cried out, squeezing around his cock so tight that the orgasm he'd thought was done renewed itself with another surge. The ripples undulating down her inner muscles tugged and pulled him into one last thrust, his hips finally stilling as they both rode out the waves of their pleasure.

In order to escape the circle of her legs, Spike had to slide down her body, but when he reached the swelter of her dripping pussy, he couldn't resist leaning in to devour the juices, sucking at her opening and causing her to gasp when his tongue went diving in deeper for more. She squeaked from the surprise, and reached for the branch overhead to steady herself as he finished his post-coital treat, writhing in another orgasm when his teeth joined his tongue.

Finally breaking free from the draw of her flesh, Spike immediately regretted the lack of her heat, but when he started to reach for her hips again, Buffy batted his hands away.

"One of us has body heat that's escaping," she warned. Dropping to her feet, she bent to pull up her pants. "Ewww." Grimacing, she squirmed slightly as she did up the button and zipper. "How can you go commando? This just feels weird."

Spike grinned and reached inside the waistband of her trousers to rip the remains of her underwear free. "It's all about access," he said, tucking the scrap of fabric into his coat pocket. "You'll save yourself more than a few quid if you just stopped with the delicates all together, luv."

"But then you won't have anything to steal from me," she said in wide-eyed innocence. She laughed at the obvious shock on his face. "What? You think I hadn't noticed that some of my underwear was missing? You kind of gave yourself away, Spike. With it only being you and me, it was pretty obvious the line-up had a grand total of one suspect."

When she slid her arms around his waist and rested her cheek on his chest, he wrapped her within the confines of his coat to help her warm up. "Thank you," he murmured, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

"For not busting your chops about stealing my panties?"

"For not running in the opposite direction when your mum showed up." He ducked his eyes at her curious glance, suddenly embarrassed that he'd ever thought it could be a possibility at all. "Meant a lot to me, hearin' what you had to say."

"I don't see why you're so surprised. It's all true."

He had nothing to say to that, and instead devoured her mouth in a languorous kiss to convey the depth of his gratitude. When they broke apart, her mouth curved into a mischievous smile.

"I don't think Fyarls are so easy to catch, do you?" she asked. "And there are an awful lot of trees in this forest…"

Spike ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth. "Not too cold?"

"Nah. For some reason, I'm feeling all warm and squishy."

All of a sudden, she was gone from his embrace, and he turned to see her make a dash through the trees. Her laughter floated back to him as he started the chase, a grin splitting his features.

Life was good.

It was almost a shame they would have to go back to Sunnyhell in a couple days.

-----

Considering how little they had to work with, Joyce was impressed with just how homey Buffy and Spike had made the small cabin. The handmade Christmas decorations warmed the bare interior, and the few toys that were scattered about reminded any and all that a child lived there. She wasn't sure she wanted to consider why she found one of Buffy's bras slipped behind the stack of firewood at the side of the hearth, but considering the revelation that her daughter was sharing a bed with Spike, she thought she already had a pretty good idea.

Curling up on the couch with one of the books from the shelves, she read while she waited for them to return from their demon search. An hour had elapsed before she heard a sound, but the door that opened was not the one she expected.

Holly stood framed in the dark bedroom doorway, a ragged doll clutched tightly to her chest. Her cheeks glistened with the tracks of dried tears, but she could only stare as Joyce set down her book.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" Joyce asked gently.

"I heard something."

She held open her arms. "Come here."

Though the child hesitated, her eyes were luminous as she slowly stepped forward, stopping short of the offered embrace. Her gaze flickered over the invitation before returning to Joyce's face.

"Where's Buffy and Spike?" she asked. Her voice was tiny, but the fear in it was not.

"They went out for a little while. They'll be back soon." In lieu of holding the little girl to console her, Joyce patted the seat next to her on the couch, smiling when Holly climbed up and tucked her knobby knees beneath her tiny chin. "It was probably one of them you heard. So, nothing to be scared of."

"Why don't you like Spike?"

It was not a question she expected. "I like Spike just fine," Joyce said. "Who do you think taught him that hot chocolate recipe?"

"He thinks he's scary, but he's not. He's my friend."

"I know." Her smile grew gentler. "He cares about you a lot."

"He said he loves me." Wide eyes. A mouth that contracted into a tight "o." A whisper. "I wasn't supposed to tell that."

"That's OK. I kind of figured that part out for myself."

Holly chewed at her lower lip, visibly weighing her next words. "Spike loves Buffy, too."

Hearing it spoken out loud was different than seeing it acted so covertly before her eyes. Taking a deep breath, Joyce decided to change the subject. "You want to wait here with me until they get back?"

The child nodded. "Spike plays with me, too."

"Do you want me to play with you?"

A shake of her head. "I just want you to know."

Apparently, Holly wasn't going to let the topic get dropped.

"Why do you think Spike…feels that way about Buffy?" Joyce asked carefully. She couldn't say the words herself; that made it just a little _too_ real.

"Because he cried when he thought she was going to die."

"He…what?"

She'd witnessed Spike's tears before, of course. Comforting him when he'd been so broken about Drusilla. She'd seen the anguish that had been tearing him apart. For some reason, she had a hard time picturing that same anguish in relation to Buffy.

"He was sad," Holly said solemnly. "Don't you cry when you're sad?"

"Well, yes…"

"And then he was happy again when she got made all better. So, see? He loves her."

Joyce's smile was slightly patronizing. "Oh, sweetie, it's not that easy."

"Yes, it is."

The earnestness in the little face was too heartbreaking to argue with. When Holly looked at her like this, Joyce could easily understand how Spike could get so smitten with the child. He had a soft spot for being needed.

The thought made her pause. Was that what had happened? Buffy had been incapacitated from the car accident. If she'd taken Joyce's advice and been nicer to Spike during a time when she was relying upon him, it was entirely possible that he might have lowered his guard with Buffy to let her see some of the person beneath the rough exterior. That was how Joyce had come to see the softer side of Spike. The qualities Buffy had described were just some of what Joyce had seen.

"Why don't you tell me about some of the other things Spike has been doing?" Joyce coaxed. Maybe if she knew more about how their lives had been on a day to day basis over the past two weeks, she might better understand the relationship that had developed.

For Buffy's sake, she hoped she could.

-----

They registered under Doyle's name in hopes that it would at least slow any attempts Maria might make to locate them. Though the hotel didn't have any rooms with three beds, almost immediately, Doyle relinquished any claim to needing one, using his ghost status as the reason once they were out of earshot of the clerk. Giles was relieved to be able to stretch out, even if the mattress was less than optimal and the blankets smelled like cigarette smoke, taking pleasure in the soothing darkness to quickly fall into a deep slumber.

He woke to the sound of voices arguing, and blinked into the murk to see a crack of light coming from the closed bathroom door. Paul was still out, and the clock on the nightstand read just a few minutes before midnight. The one missing was Doyle, but who he could be talking to, Giles had no idea.

Wincing as he sat up, he had to wait a long moment before he could find the strength to stand. He had a strong suspicion that at least two ribs were cracked and knew he most likely shouldn't be moving at all, but he was just so weary of secrets being kept that he couldn't help but drive himself upward, to step quietly toward the bathroom in order to hear what was going on.

"…should've known," Doyle was saying. "That's one determined woman, that Joyce."

In spite of himself, Giles smiled. Joyce must've found Buffy after all.

"Buffy had to get it from somewhere."

His smile vanished. His heart clenched.

He knew that voice.

"How'd she take the news?"

"Tara said it looked good, considering. She got there too late to actually intervene, and has just been watching Joyce to make sure everything's OK."

Giles' trembling hand came up to the door. He couldn't be this close and not see her. Perhaps just a small peek…

The conversation paused, and he held his breath as he waited for them to continue. When the door began to move away from him, he couldn't react, so frozen to his spot as he merely waited.

And saw.

Jenny smiled when she saw him, her dark eyes sad. "Hello, Rupert," she said.

To be continued in Chapter 49: Said the Night Wind to the Little Lamb…


	49. Said the Night Wind to the Little Lamb

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Holly has given Joyce some insight into Buffy and Spike's relationship, while Giles has come face to face with Jenny…

* * *

Giles barely noticed when Doyle stepped out of the way from where he'd opened the door. He barely heard the awkward excuse the corporeal ghost muttered before slipping out of the bath and into the bedroom. All he could see was her, and all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. 

He'd never thought he would see her again.

See those dancing eyes.

See that wicked smile.

_Jenny._

"If you don't want to give Paul a free show," she said with a small smile, "you might want to come inside and shut the door."

Her words shattered the spell that bound him, and Giles crossed the threshold, nudging the door just enough to close behind him. "They said…" he started, but he didn't know where to go after that. What could he possibly say to her that wouldn't leave his heart in ribbons? What could he possibly do that could make this situation any better?

"I'm so sorry it had to be like this," Jenny said. "I didn't want you to have to hurt any more by seeing me."

He frowned. "Didn't you…wish to see me?" The question was choked from his throat.

"Of course." She took a step closer, reaching out to touch him before remembering that he wouldn't be able to feel her anyway. Her hand dropped back to her side. "Now, always, every chance I get, I check in on you. To make sure you're all right. But this…I know how hard it must be for you."

Tears stung his eyes, and he wanted to duck his head to hide them but that would mean not seeing her, not having her in front of him, and he couldn't do that, he just couldn't. "I'm so sorry," Giles whispered. "I never meant-."

"I know."

The pounding of his heart inside his chest almost drowned out the soft words, and he swallowed as he tried to regain some control. "You look lovely," he said before he could stop from blurting the words, and then flushed. "Well, that was ridiculous. Of course, you look lovely-."

"Rupert. Stop." Jenny shook her head as he fell silent. "I'm going to say this now, and I'm only going to say this once. What happened to me…was not your fault. I know what you tried to do, and I know it wasn't…easy, finding me like you did, but it was all Angelus. If I'd been honest with all of you from the start, maybe things would've been different, but that's not what happened. And I'm perfectly all right with that. I just wish you still didn't hurt so much about all of it."

"I could've-."

"No, you couldn't."

"I should've-."

"No, you shouldn't." She sighed. "Are we going to go through all the could've's, should've's, would've's?" Jenny asked. The corner of her mouth lifted. "Because it's not really the point, now, is it? Shouldn't we be concentrating on making sure that Buffy succeeds in saving Holly from Maria's plans?"

He started to speak, and then stopped, the sudden dawning of what she was doing staying his argument. "You're attempting to distract me," Giles said, incredulous. At least some of his initial ache at seeing her was abating. "You're changing the subject, just like-."

But he couldn't finish that thought, because that thought carried with it the pain of blame and memories that he'd thought he'd already dealt with.

"Is it working?" She wore a full smile now, and her eyes were bright with amusement.

"No."

"It never did. You were always too stubborn, Rupert. I'm glad to see that hasn't changed."

His breath was too much for his lungs, and he exhaled loudly, leaning against the sink and rubbing at his eyes. "I've missed you," Giles murmured. For some reason, it was easier to say out loud when he wasn't looking at her. It was almost as if he was back in his bed and saying it into the darkness, like he had so many nights after she'd been killed.

"I've missed you, too," she replied. She must've stepped closer because, without lifting his head, he could see the swish of her skirt appear in his circle of vision. "I've worried about you. I hate seeing you unhappy."

Looking up, he saw that her smile had vanished. "I've managed. Buffy and I have been…busy."

"Is that your reason for not calling Olivia since she returned to England?" At his obvious shock that she knew such a detail, Jenny shook her head. "I told you I was watching."

"Spying, more likely."

"Probably. But if I hadn't been, I wouldn't have found out about Maria's plan for you, and then we wouldn't have been able to do anything about getting Buffy and Spike to watch over Holly."

"You…what?"

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out already. You didn't think it was strange that _everyone_ was suddenly unavailable to watch Spike? It took some finagling to convince Mrs. Rosenberg to go to Wisconsin, but it's looking like it was well worth it in the end."

"Are you saying all of this was orchestrated?" His pain was dissipating in light of the truth coming out, and he straightened as he addressed her. "_You're_ the reason Buffy's been trapped with Spike for the past two weeks?"

"Well, no, that was more Tara's doing. I didn't think Spike was the best choice for this assignment."

"Tara? Who is Tara?"

"Sit down, Rupert. If you promise not to interrupt, I'll tell you everything."

* * *

Somehow, he managed to forget halfway through her story that it was Jenny telling the tale-well, not forget, per se, but distracted enough by the newfound information not to dwell on his own feelings.

"She's…three?" he asked, for the third time since Jenny had finished.

"At least, for the next forty-eight or so hours she is."

"But…Maria told us she was her daughter. That would be quite impossible-."

"Maria manipulated your emotions to get you to help her," Jenny said. "That's what she does. She took three Watchers who felt they'd failed their Slayers, and used their guilt to try and serve her own interests." She smiled. "I should've known you'd be too smart for her."

"I wasn't. It was all Joyce. Until she arrived, I was quite content to continue our search." Giles paused, frowning. "Well, perhaps not _quite_ content. But I would likely have continued if Joyce hadn't intervened."

"Actually, I heard she fell through Paul's window."

He glanced up and caught Jenny's amused smile. Oh, how he had missed her wry observations. It just felt so _right_ having this conversation with her, as if the last two years without her hadn't happened. It must have shown in his face, though, because her smile slowly faded.

"You know what I wish?" she asked. Her tone was contemplative. "I wish that you could walk away from this and move on. Let go of the past. It's holding you back, Rupert, and you don't really want that. _I_ don't want that."

"I can't," he admitted. "If I let it go, I run the risk of having someone else get hurt in the same way you were. I won't let that happen."

"You're cheating yourself."

"And I'm saving lives in the process. I consider that a fair trade, don't you?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "Actually, I don't. People die, Rupert. You can't change that. And if someone is already running that risk every other day of their life, what does it matter if you keep them at arms' length or not? You're not really interested in keeping other people safe. You're interested in not getting hurt again."

Rising to his feet, Giles felt a surge of anger at her words. "And how exactly would you know that?" he demanded. "In case you haven't noticed, Jenny, you haven't been around for the past two years. What I've done, I've done for all the right reasons. You, of all people, should understand that."

"Now _there's_ the Rupert I remember. All self-righteous bluster even when he knows he's wrong."

It was said with affection, her eyes dancing, and it completely deflated the burn that had been mounting within his chest. "I don't bluster," he argued, though they both recognized the ineffectiveness of his statement and smiled almost at exactly the same time. "And you are still one of the most infuriating women I have ever known."

"I guess they're your kink, then, huh? It certainly explains Joyce." Jenny laughed at the confusion he couldn't hide. "It's all right to be attracted to her, you know."

"I'm not-."

"I've got just two words for you. Band candy."

Giles blushed. "You…know about that?"

"Know about it? Whose idea do you think it was? And it was working out great until you two decided to go all shy afterwards. What was that all about anyway?"

"It wouldn't have been…appropriate."

"That's ridiculous. Give me one good reason why Joyce is such a bad thing for you."

He looked her in the eyes then. "Because she's not you."

His words were not what she expected, and she visibly sagged beneath the weight of them. "Talk about placing a burden of guilt on a girl," Jenny said softly. "Do you know how hard it is to tote such a load when your shoulders aren't even solid?"

The joke fell flat. "I'm not interested in relationships right now," Giles said. "I thought…with Olivia…but the incident with the Gentlemen was too much for her. I'm not sure why I expected otherwise."

"It would be too much for a lot of people. Maybe not for Joyce, considering how things have turned out so far with Holly."

"Jenny-."

"I'm dropping it, I promise. If you promise me that you're going to start taking care of yourself better. Even Buffy's grabbing happiness while she can, so if the busy Slayer can do it, I certainly think her Watcher can."

He only nodded. He didn't know what else to say to her. All his words were exhausted, and his heart was leaden with the knowledge that he would likely never get the chance to see her again. Perhaps this had been a bad idea, after all. Perhaps Joyce had been right in keeping him in the dark.

"You should rest," Jenny said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "I've…asked for a little something to help you heal more quickly. I'm sorry you ended up on the wrong end of Maria's interrogation." When Giles didn't move right away, she closed the gap between them and waited until he met her eyes again.

"I know what you want," she said. "I know you want me to say that I forgive you. But I can't. There's nothing to forgive, Rupert. You. Did nothing. Wrong. I know you don't believe me, but maybe you will someday. I just hope it's sooner rather than later."

Clearing his throat to avoid the tears that threatened to spill, Giles reached for the door knob. "Just tell me one thing," he said, his back to her, his hand almost trembling. "Are you happy?"

"Yes." No hesitation. She didn't even have to think about it, he realized. "What I do now…it's important. It matters. It makes up for not…for all the other."

It was all he wanted to hear. "Thank you," Giles murmured, and stepped back into the murk of the hotel room. Paul still slept, and in the chair by the window, Doyle was flipping through an old TV Guide, reading it by the moonlight that came in through the open curtains. He glanced up when Giles emerged, but his face was in shadows, the light from behind shielding him from inspection.

"You should rest, man," Doyle said. The echo of Jenny's words made Giles sag in exhaustion. "Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

"Oh?" he asked, climbing carefully back into his bed. "And why's that?"

"You'll see." Doyle's veiled statement echoed inside Giles' head as sleep overcame him again. "You'll see…"

* * *

He only agreed to go back to the cabin so quickly because Buffy pulled out her secret weapon.

"It's only been a couple hours," Spike complained as she began pulling him in the direction of the house again. He tugged just enough to pull her against him, her bottom nestling firmly against his erection, his arm snaking around her waist. "Can think of a whole bunch of ways we can spend the rest of the night," he said as he buried his face in her hair. "And not one of 'em involves bein' inside."

"Mom's going to start worrying," Buffy said. "She's having a hard enough time dealing with the idea of you and me as it is. Do you really want to make it any harder?"

Spike ground his cock into her bottom. "Not sure that's possible, luv."

With a sigh, she twisted in his arms, lifting her face to look at him.

And there it came.

That bloody lower lip.

All petulant, and demanding, and begging him to pay attention to it.

Bitch.

"Please?" Buffy asked. "Do it for me?"

Doomed. That's what he was. A sucker for a lower lip and a little scrap of solicitude.

Rolling his eyes, Spike sighed, the sound loud and drawn out in the crisp night air. "Just remember you'll owe me one," he said. He shook his head when she began pulling him along, their fingers entwined. At least he'd got a few good hours before returning to the lion's den.

Or rather, mama lion's den.

When they opened the door, both Buffy and Spike were surprised by the sight of Joyce sitting on the couch, still awake. A book was open in her lap, and Holly was curled into her side, fast asleep, her index finger stuck fast in her mouth.

"You're still up," Buffy said.

"Sshhh," Joyce warned. "She finally went back to sleep."

"Pidge wasn't sleepwalkin' again, was she?"

"No, just a little unsettled. We had a lovely visit while we waited for you two, though." She held her hand up to stop him when Spike moved to pick Holly up. "I have an idea," Joyce said. "Why doesn't Buffy put her to bed, and then spend the night in there? I'd like to have a few words with you, Spike."

"Mom, you don't-."

"It's OK, pet." His eyes never left the elder Summers woman. "You'd best get some rest. Me and your mum have some stuff to talk over anyway."

"You mean, you want to talk about me."

"And they say Slayers are only good with their fists," he teased.

Buffy gave in gracefully, scooping Holly up in her arms after giving her mother a kiss on the cheek. She stopped in front of Spike before going into the bedroom. "Play nice," she warned, and shot a look over her shoulder at her mom. "Both of you."

Joyce stayed silent until the door was firmly closed behind Buffy, and then rose from her seat. "Hungry?" she asked, stepping to the kitchen. "I would imagine you must've worked up quite an appetite."

Tilting his head as he regarded her, Spike slipped his coat off his shoulders and dropped it to a chair near the door. If he didn't know better, he would've thought Joyce was deliberately baiting him-. Hell, he _did_ know better, and yeah, she sure as hell was. He smiled. He knew he'd always liked Joyce for a reason.

"I'll take care of it," he said, sauntering to join her. "Something tells me you've not had much practice warming up blood."

"You've got me there." She handed over the packet she'd removed from the fridge, and watched as he set to heating it. Her gaze was contemplative, and much of the disapproval from earlier seemed to be missing. "Holly really adores you, you know."

Spike stirred the viscous liquid. "Should see Buffy with her," he said. "It was a little rough at first, but they've come a long way."

"So have you, it looks like."

"Is this the part where you tell me to get the hell away from your daughter?" He teased her with her own words, but when he cast a glance at her through his eyelashes, he couldn't help but see the serious set of her mouth.

"No," Joyce said. "This is the part where I ask if this is just a way for you to get back at Buffy, once and for all."

All pretense at trying to remain nonchalant about the matter vanished. "What are you talkin' about?"

"Don't play games with me, Spike. I know how much trouble you've been for Buffy, and I know how very much not thrilled you are about your current situation. Convince me that this isn't some elaborate scheme of yours to hurt Buffy the only way you can now. She cares about you, and you of all people should know that the only way to get to Buffy is through her heart."

"Never even considered that," Spike said in all honesty. "Not a bad plan, considering. Too bad I didn't think of it before fallin' for her for real. I know you don't want to hear it, Joyce, but I love Buffy."

"Last I heard, you loved Drusilla."

"Yeah, well, Dru left, now didn't she?"

"So, Buffy is just her stand-in? Is that what you're telling me?"

"No, that's not what I said."

"That's what it sounded like."

"Looks like I figured out where Buffy gets her selective hearing from." He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, but Spike's rising irritation at being misunderstood was getting the better of him.

"Look," he said, and pulled the pan off the burner so that he could devote all his attention to Joyce, "I'm not goin' to lie and say I was over the moon when Buffy and I found out we were stuck here, with only the other for company. But a lot's changed since then. We had to wipe the slate clean, if you know what I mean, or there was no way we would've lasted a single day without tearing each other's throat out. Was the best thing that's happened to me in a long time, 'cause I finally got the chance to really see her. I don't have to tell you she's an amazing young woman."

Joyce's eyes narrowed. "But she's still the Slayer," she said. "And you're still a vampire. Angel-."

"-is a wanker for givin' up so easily. 'Course, that worked out better for me."

"Because it makes Buffy vulnerable?"

"I was goin' to say _available_, actually."

Pressing her lips together, Joyce just stared at him for a long minute, every second adding to Spike's discomfort. Finally, she said, "Holly told me about Buffy almost dying."

He stilled. "Oh?" Memories of how the little one had walked in on him crying burned, and he turned to pull a mug out of the cupboard before his feelings about how close he'd come to losing Buffy were written across his face.

"I want you to know…I'm thankful that you were here to look after my little girl. I can't stand the thought that I might lose her again."

"And you won't, if I have anything to say about the matter," he replied, his voice husky.

"For some reason, I think I want to believe you."

"No, I think you're more inclined to be believing a certain little moptop who doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut. Believing me is just an unfortunate side effect."

"Maybe not so unfortunate," Joyce said quietly.

Risking another glance, Spike saw her wiping wearily at her eyes. "Been a long day for you, hasn't it?" he asked.

"You have no idea."

He kept his gaze averted, pouring out his blood as he spoke. "Since Buffy's in with the little one, you might as well take the bed upstairs. I'll just camp out on the couch. Be better for keeping an eye out in case Pidge decides to do another walkabout."

"Thank you," Joyce said. "I'd appreciate that."

Listening to her climb the ladder, Spike waited until he heard the squeak of the bed before glancing around at the now empty room. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened there, but he had a sneaking suspicion he'd managed to come out ahead in this first round of wrangling with Buffy's everyday life.

And he was even more convinced that the reason he'd done so well was all due to Holly. He was going to have to pay her back for it in the morning.

To be continued in Chapter 50: Paint Red Rattles on Old Rollie…


	50. Paint Red Rattles on Old Rollie

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Giles has had a talk with Jenny, and Joyce has had a discussion with Spike about his relationship with Holly…

* * *

Two days.

Not even two days. Thirty-eight hours and change.

It was all the time she had left. She was even further away from her goal now than she'd been two weeks previous, because now she was missing two of her Watchers.

And Maria was just inches away from killing the one that remained.

She sniffed as Silas wiped at the perspiration that dripped down his face with a sweat-stained handkerchief. "Stop being so melodramatic," she scolded. Her voice was colder than the frigid air within the rental car. "They did nothing beyond the scope of their duties."

"I feel rather like No. 6," he wheezed.

"Hardly. All they did was ask you a few questions. No wonder you performed so poorly with the Council. I'm surprised you're still able to control your body functions at all." She sneered in the face of his profuse sweating. "Oh, wait. You can't."

"They could've discovered the truth about why we were there."

"But they didn't."

"Why didn't you get us out of there? Why did you let us be subjected so?"

His rising voice bordered on histrionic, grating down Maria's spine with a chalkboard ease that made her stiffen. "Because they were looking for Paul and Rupert," she replied through gritted teeth. "I stayed on the chance that they would be brought in."

"What are we going to do now?"

"We're going to continue our search," she replied. "Since Paul and Rupert are beyond our reach at the moment, we'll focus our attention on Mrs. Summers instead."

"But-."

The flash from her hand left Silas gasping for air, clutching at his throat as he fought to loosen his tie. Keeping her palm facing him, Maria ignored his desperation, instead closing her eyes and focusing on the spell she'd placed on Mrs. Summers' vehicle. It pulsed with a silvery tenor, calling and stretching before her mind's eye with a tenuous precision that exemplified all her spells. That was her style. Clean and simple.

It was only when she heard Silas begin pounding on the steering wheel that she released him from the magical bond.

"Now stop asking ludicrous questions," Maria said, lowering her hand. Her eyes were still closed, her mind still concentrating on the path she was seeing before them. "In fact, do me a favor and don't speak unless you're spoken to. If you can't abide by that, I'll remove your tongue, do you understand?"

"Yes," Silas croaked. His gasps rattled in his chest.

"Drive," Maria instructed. "Go back to that Wal-Mart we saw Mrs. Summers leave from. Our path starts there."

She was relieved when he didn't speak and only turned the key in the ignition. Once they started following the trail left by the spell, she'd be able to determine where it was Mrs. Summers was headed. If luck was on Maria's side, she went straight to the Slayer. That meant, she was likely with Holly, as well.

Maria smiled as the car vibrated around her. Thirty-eight hours was plenty of time. There was no reason yet to worry.

* * *

The sun was streaming in through the curtains when Giles finally woke up. Blinking against the brilliance, he saw Paul sitting at the table with Doyle, bent over a map as his thin fingers traced over an unseen route.

"Seven hours, if my calculations are correct," Paul said.

"Eight, with the way Giles drives," Doyle said.

"Oh. Well, yes, I suppose that's correct. And we mustn't forget the stops for the restroom-."

"I only stopped once, you nattering twit," Giles complained. Propping himself up on his elbows, he squinted at the two men, trying to see them through the bright sunshine. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Plotting the course back to Sunnydale," Paul explained. "We've come rather far out of our way, and as I'm not familiar with the area-."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Fumbling on the nightstand, Giles grabbed his glasses while he sat up. "What time is it anyway?"

"It's just gone noon. We thought it would be best for you to get as much sleep as you could considering your ordeal yesterday. How do you feel?"  
Tentatively, Giles twisted his torso, testing the give and take of his ribs. When there was no immediate pain, he exerted himself a little more, grinning as he relished his newfound vigor. "Quite well, actually," he said. "It's rather…surprising."

"That's Jenny's doing," Doyle said. "She pulled in a few favors with the Powers to heal you up quicker."

Mention of her name was a soft burn somewhere in the region of his heart, and Giles sagged slightly as he remembered their conversation in the wee hours of the morning. "You'll have to thank her for me," he said.

"Actually, you can do it yourself."

All three men turned to see Jenny standing by the bathroom. Her tone had been light, but there was no smile on her fine features. "Good afternoon," she said when she had their attention. "Except, a little light on the good, as it turns out."

"What are you doing here?" Doyle asked. "I thought-."

"We've got problems," she interrupted. "Maria-sized problems."

Bolting to his feet, Paul skittered away from the exposed window, pressing himself into the wall. "Is she here? Are we in danger?" he spluttered.

"Not here, but on the move." Her eyes locked with Doyle's. "She must've put some kind of spell on Joyce. Maria's taking the exact same path Joyce did yesterday."

"Damn," Doyle muttered. He looked back at the map, the pen he'd been holding tapping against the paper. "I guess blowing up her car yesterday didn't slow her down as much as we would've liked."

"If Joyce hasn't found Buffy," Giles started.

"She has." Jenny nodded when he opened his mouth to speak again. "And they're both perfectly fine, so you don't have to worry about that, Rupert."

"How long before she reaches them?" Doyle asked, still intent on the map.

"It depends. Estimates say five hours until she reaches the car, but how long it will take her once they start searching the forest, there's no telling. Once she crosses the barrier, we'll be out of luck."

"Barrier? What barrier?"

She turned back to answer Giles' question. "The one that's keeping Buffy and Spike from abandoning their duty. It doesn't dissipate until midnight tomorrow night. That's-."

"-when Maria runs out of time for her purpose for Holly," he finished. "If she discovers them tonight, she'll have an entire day to perform the ritual." He rose to his feet. "We have to stop her."

"That's why I'm here," Jenny said. "And that's why Tara's on her way to warn Buffy and Spike."

"What happened to the Powers wanting us to keep them out of it?" Doyle asked.

"They changed their minds. Start packing."

* * *

When he woke up, he could hear the melodic cadences of female voices down below, and Spike couldn't help his smile as he rolled over onto his side to listen.

"I'm telling you, she won't eat it. It's orange."

"Oh, Buffy, you have so much yet to learn. How do you think I got you to eat things when you were little?"

"I'm just saying-."

"What is it?"

"It's good for you."

"It's orange. Orange is yucky."

"Look." The sound of lip smacking was followed by Joyce's throaty "mmmm." "It's really good. You don't know what you're missing."

"Yes, I do. Yucky stuff."

Buffy giggled. "Told you."

"One little bite, Holly? Look at how tiny that is. That's not even a bite. That's a nibble."

"Little yucky is still yucky."

"Buffy likes it. Don't you want to be like Buffy?"

"Buffy can have mine then."  
The fit of giggles was now full-blown laughter. "Mom, this is a lost cause. Spike and I have been trying this for a week now. It's not going to work."

"It will. You just have to be patient."

"What's patient?"

"It means…you keep trying or waiting without getting upset or giving up."

"Like Spike was when Buffy got sick?"

Silence.

He wished he could see their faces.

"Yes," Joyce said quietly. "Like that."

Spike's eyes drifted shut again. He'd still been awake when Joyce came down at dawn, and yielded to her command that he sleep upstairs while she took care of breakfast. By the level of light that permeated the loft, it was already after lunch-or during lunch, from the sound of the conversation downstairs.

The fact that Buffy and Joyce weren't arguing about him, too, was a good sign. Spike had spent the rest of the night trying not to replay the conversation he'd had with the elder Summers woman in his head, wondering if he'd made things better or worse for them, and had finally decided that he thought too much. Better to just let things play out. All he could do was be himself.

It was certainly enough for Buffy.

He was just starting to doze again when a new voice seemed to join the others, low and soothing and oddly familiar. Before he could bother to wake fully to find out who it was, though, the soft creak of the ladder crept past his senses, and he opened his eyes in time to see Buffy's head poke over the top rung.

"You're up," she said.

"Just," Spike replied. His voice was oddly hoarse, and he swallowed to wet his throat.

"Can you come down, please? It looks like we might have some trouble coming up."

The mirth that he'd heard in her earlier conversation was gone, replaced by the gravity that was so typical of her Slayer-mode. Instantly, Spike's mind sharpened, and he kicked off the blanket as he reached for his jeans.

"Give me two ticks, luv," he said. "Be right there."

He dressed in record time, sliding down the ladder to see Buffy and Joyce sitting on the couch, with Holly playing near the tree. The fourth in the room was fidgeting near the window, and Spike frowned as he met Tara's eyes.

"Something tells me this isn't a social call," he remarked.

"It's not," Tara said. "It's about Maria."

His gaze was immediately drawn to an unaware Holly. "Should little ears be in on this then?" he asked.

"Probably not, but I need all of you to hear this."

Spike crouched at the child's side. "You wanna do me a favor, pidge?"

"What?"

"Remember how you asked if we could play hairdresser? Well, I'll do it if you go in the bedroom to play for a bit."

Wide eyes scanned the room before returning to Spike's face. "Is everything OK?"

"Everything's just fine, but this is goin' to be boring grown-up talk. Trust me, if there was a way for me to cut out of this, I'd be in that bedroom with you. So, do we have an agreement?"

"OK." Gathering her toys, she waddled to the bedroom with her arms laden down, only pausing when she got to the doorway to look back at the adults.

"What's this about then?" Spike said, once the door was closed behind Holly.

"Maria's heading this way," Tara said. "We think she must've cast some kind of spell on Mrs. Summers to track her, because she's taking the same path on the highway that Mrs. Summers did."

"I never saw her," Joyce said with a frown. "How could she have done that?"

"We're not sure, but what matters is that she did. And since she can feasibly conduct the ritual she needs to any time before now and tomorrow midnight, you have to be on the alert should she turn up."

"She's human, right?" Buffy asked, casting a sideways glance at where Spike was perched on the arm of the couch.

"Yes, but very powerful. The scope of her magic exceeds anything I've ever encountered before."

"That doesn't mean she can sneak in and out past your little fence, does it?"

"In, but not out," Tara clarified. "If she manages to cross, she'll be stuck inside until the deadline, just like the rest of you."

"Her magic won't work on the little one, though, right?" Spike confirmed. "Moptop should be safe from her that way, at least."

"Well, except for the ritual, which we still don't understand how she's going to get to work."

Joyce frowned. "What exactly was this ritual supposed to do?" she asked. "Something about Slayers?"

Tara's gaze ducked. "It has to do with Holly's blood," she started.

"It kills 'em." The muscles in his jaw twitched as fear suddenly lanced through him. "Moptop's blood is lethal to Slayers."

"We think…Maria plans on using the blood to steal Slayer power for herself," Tara explained. "Which would-."

"Kill Buffy. Believe that's what I said." Leaping to his feet, he began pacing behind the couch, his hands balled into fists at his side. "What the hell am I doin' here then?" he demanded. "Bitch is human, which means I can't touch her. What good am I in the grand scheme of things?"

"Maria uses demons all the time to do her dirty work. You've been doing wonderfully protecting Holly from them-."

"You're more than useful." Buffy interrupted Tara and rose to block Spike's path, forcing him to come to a stop and glare down at her. Her hand reached up to cup his cheek. "Holly and I would've both been dead by now if it wasn't for you. You've saved both of us. Don't you dare forget that."

The simple heat of her touch seemed to leech the anger from his flesh, and his head turned automatically to press his lips to her palm. Briefly, his eyes caught Joyce's, but for the first time since her arrival, he saw no reproof in them, only understanding.

"It might not come down to that at all," Tara said. "Doyle is on his way with Mr. Giles and the other Watcher. If they can get to Joyce's car in time, they'll drive it as far from here as possible. Hopefully, that'll divert Maria long enough to get us past the deadline."

Joyce frowned. "Doyle didn't want them anywhere near here. He's been spending the last week trying to convince _me_ not to come. Why would he change his mind?"

"He's not. We don't have a choice any longer. We're going to need all the help we can get."

Buffy turned away from Spike, suddenly alarmed. "Spike and I were everywhere out there last night," she said, her eyes jumping to the window. "Our footprints are all over the place. And they lead straight back here."

"Bollocks," he muttered. Not only were their tracks all over the place, they'd broken a few branches in their games, and there was at least one bush that was entirely smashed flat from where Buffy had shoved him out of a tree when he'd tried climbing up after her.

"I'll have to clean it up." Buffy began heading for the door. "How long do you think we have until Maria shows?"

"They're driving. You should be safe until at least sundown."

The Slayer nodded as she pulled on her jacket. "Spike, stay here and keep Holly occupied. Don't let her know what's going on. If you can, go through everything we have as weapons and get them ready for a fight. Mom? Feel like helping to avert your daughter's potential demise?"

Joyce stood. "Considering some of those footprints are mine, I think that's only fair."

He was speechless as both Summers women disappeared faster than he could protest, leaving him with Tara. As soon as the front door closed, the bedroom door opened, and Holly poked her head out.

"Is the grown-up talk all over?" she asked.

"Yeah," Spike said. His voice was brusque. He knew with his head that that this plan was the best; with at least another four hours of sunlight, he was useless to help clean up outside. But it didn't stop the waves of worthlessness washing over him, and it didn't prevent the all-too familiar sense of impotency from leaving his muscles feel like lead.

Tiny arms wrapped around Spike's legs, and he was jerked from his momentary bout of self-loathing to glance down at the top of Holly's curly hair. When she looked up at him, her dark eyes seemed to engulf her face, and without saying a word, he knew she'd heard every word that had been said, regardless of his efforts to protect her from the worst of it. With a small smile, he patted her shoulder.

"So, who goes first, pidge? You or me?"

* * *

Covering their prints in the snow gave her purpose, purpose that had been oddly lacking in the two weeks since their confinement. If Buffy was honest with herself, she'd have to admit to missing the rush of fighting for her life. Not that she got off on the danger, but that adrenaline that so often fueled her everyday life had grown complacent in the past two weeks. She only hoped it hadn't left her soft, too.

She knew Spike would be chomping at the bit by the time she got back to the cabin, but as she and her mother worked to mask all the activity that had occurred outside, Buffy consigned herself to making it up to him later. He was doing a necessary job at the moment, and if he didn't see the value in it, she would just have to find some way of convincing him, once they got past the threat to Holly. What part he could possibly play in that fight, she had no idea, but the Powers wouldn't have wanted him there without a reason. They would just have to wait to see what that reason would be.

"I'm sorry," Joyce said as they brushed the pine fronds over the snow, obscuring the footprints. It was the first thing either woman had said out loud since leaving the house, and Buffy jumped at the sound.

"What are you sorry for?"

"If I hadn't come here, Maria would never have found you. This is all my fault."

She shook her head. "It's not anyone's fault. If it wasn't you, it would've been something else. You'd be surprised how easy it is sometimes for the bad guys to find a way."

"Still-."

"Look, Mom, no offense, but now is really not the best time for true confessions. I appreciate it, honest, but there are better things we can be doing, OK?"

Joyce sighed. "All right."

They continued working in silence, the sun creeping lower over the horizon with every step. Finally, Buffy said, "If you're truly feeling all remorseful, though, you can make it up to me with a shopping spree when we get back home. Take me to all the best post-holiday sales." She grinned. "We can even drag Spike along. I bet he'd love a makeover."

She caught her mom smiling out of the corner of her eye. "It's a deal."

To be continued in Chapter 51: Ave Maria…


	51. Ave Maria

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Giles and the others are on their way to try and intercept Maria, while Tara has shown up at the cabin to warn Buffy and Spike…

* * *

He was glad he didn't have a reflection. What the little one was doing to him was beyond horrific, he was sure.

"Done yet?" Spike asked. His eyes were closed, and her warm breath fanned across his forehead as she leaned in to examine her work.

"No," Holly said.

He winced as the edge of the pencil caught on his eye again, and her mumbled "sorry" was accompanied by a rapid pulling away. "What about now?"

"Not yet." There was a shuffle among her supplies, and then, "Be patient."

Opening a single lid, Spike peered at the bowed head before him. "Who're you, and what've you done with my moptop?" he taunted.

Holly giggled. "I'm right here, silly."

"Can't be. My Moptop doesn't use words like 'patient.'"

"Buffy's mommy taught it to me."

He closed his eye again. "Why does that not surprise me?"

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft hush of her breathing. Then…

"Are you scared?"

This time, he opened both his eyes, and looked straight into the haunted gaze of the child. Her cheeks were bright pink from where he'd applied the rouge, and there were fake curly lashes drawn up from the corners of her eyes, but there was nothing comical about the way she was watching him.

"I never get scared, pidge," he said with more bombast than he actually felt.

"You were scared when Buffy was dying. Wouldn't you be scared if it was me?"

His head tilted as he lifted a hand to cup her tiny face. "Of course, I would," Spike replied. "'Cept nothin's going to happen to you so there's nothin' for me to be scared about, understand?"

"But…Buffy left."

"She and her mum just needed to get some fresh air. They'll be back any minute."

"I don't want to hurt Buffy any more."

"And you won't. And little girls should stop eavesdropping when they're sent to the other room to play."

Holly nodded, her eyes ducking to the make-up that was strewn around them. Spike had raided Buffy's stash, knowing this was one time she wouldn't argue at the invasion, and it had served to distract the child for a bit, but time was stretching thin. Even Spike was starting to feel the itch as the sun disappeared into night. Where the hell was Buffy?

"Pidge, listen to me." He lifted her chin with a single finger, and his heart twisted at the shine of unshed tears that met him. "There is no way in hell I'm about to let _anything_ happen to you _or_ Buffy, understand? I will fight until I'm dust before I let anyone so much as lay a finger on you, I promise you that."

"I don't want you to die, either." All of a sudden, Holly launched herself at him, her arms squeezing tightly around his neck. "I'm scared, Spike," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.

He held her close, his strong hands rubbing at her back. "I know," he soothed. "But you don't have to worry. Me and Buffy are goin' to take care of everything."

_If Buffy ever decides to come back._

* * *

Her feet were numb, and they had long ago stopped trying to make conversation, the encroaching sunset bleeding all sense of merriment from their paces. Buffy's eyes were starting to blur from staring at the snow, but she was fairly certain they'd done a thorough job at masking a good portion of the activity. Nothing led directly back to the cabin, and that was all that mattered.

Their steps were heavy as they climbed the stairs to the porch. Kicking the rest of the snow from her shoes, Buffy caught her mother's scrutiny out of the corner of her eye. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Joyce said.

"No, it's something," Buffy countered. "You've been looking at me like that since I told you not to apologize."

Joyce's lips pressed together, as she weighted her words. "It's just…I want you to know how proud I am of you," she finally said. "You're doing an amazing job here."

Buffy's brows quirked. "You've seen me in Slayer mode before, Mom."

"It's not just that. Well, it's _partially_ that, but it's also…Holly adores you. You should hear her go on and on about you and Spike. It's quite cute, actually."

"She loves him. She has since she got here. It wigged me out in the beginning, but I got it, eventually."

"She loves you, too."

Buffy shrugged. "Except when it's time for punishment. Then, not so much with the loving, trust me."

She pushed open the door, ready to continue the denial, but was cut short by the sight of Spike and Holly hugging on the floor in front of the couch. It wasn't the hugging that was so surprising, however. It was their appearances.

Buffy stifled a giggle. Playing hairdresser, indeed.

Holly looked like any little girl who'd been allowed to dip into her mother's make-up. But it was Spike's get-up that brought the smiles. His hair stood up in clumps all around his head, kind of punk if it was being done by a blind stylist with club fingers. Red lipstick filled his lips, and a good half-inch around them, while thick black eyeliner made him look like a raccoon.

The sound of the door opening made the pair break apart, and she was surprised when Holly rose and dashed to hug the Slayer's legs. "What's wrong?" Buffy asked, meeting Spike's gaze. "Other than having my make-up bag explode all over your face."

"Think she's just glad you're back," he said, rising to his feet. His hand rose to his hair, and he grimaced as he felt the clusters that had been lacquered into place. "Think I am, too. Means I can go shower and wash all this junk off."

"But it's such a good look for you."

"She's right, Spike." Smiling, Joyce nudged the front door closed as she slipped off her coat. "It's very sexy."

Though he grinned, Buffy turned shocked eyes back to her mother. "Mom!"

"What? Just because I may not like the idea of my daughter dating a vampire, doesn't mean I can't appreciate that he's actually a very attractive man."

"Always knew you were a smart bird, Joyce."

"More like a perv," Buffy protested good-naturedly. "That's my boyfriend you're talking about, Mom. Lusting after him is my job, not yours."

"You want me to go back to disapproving of him? Because I can-."

"And that would be my cue to scarper off while the goin's good," Spike interrupted. He gestured toward the odds and ends on the floor. "Time to clean up, pidge," he said. "Beauty show is all done."

Tilting her head back, Holly gazed up at Buffy. "Can I do you, too?" she asked.

Spike snorted as he headed for the bathroom. "Good luck with that, pet," he said before disappearing.

"I'll start getting some dinner ready," Joyce said.

Kneeling down to look at the little girl face to face, Buffy said, "I think Spike's right. I've got some other things I need to get done tonight. But, if you want, I can help you pick it up this time. I won't disappear like a certain bleached vamp we both know."

Holly nodded, and then paused. "He only does that for little stuff," she said. "He promised me he'd take care of me."

She smiled, pushing back the hair that tumbled over the child's cheek. "I know. He's pretty good at that."

* * *

The nearer they reached their target, the more fearful Maria grew. Her eyes were glued to the road ahead of them, brazenly intent on the asphalt that was illuminated by the twin beams of light. It was coming - the path that drew her was short - but what she was going to find left her with a sickening sense of dread.

"Stop the car."

Silas knew better than to hesitate. Immediately, he decelerated along the country highway, angling the nose of the rental to the snowy shoulder. Though he turned the engine off, he left the headlights on, wary of what he was going to be asked to do next.

"Wait here," she instructed. Her fingers were stiff when she opened the door, her gait even more awkward as she emerged. Maria's gaze was fixed forward, and she began the trek that would lead her to her target.

The instant she saw the rear fender, she realized her mistake. "Damn it!" she swore, and her voice echoed into the loneliness of the surrounding forest. She'd cast the spell on the vehicle, not on Joyce Summers herself, because she'd never dreamed that the car would be abandoned at this point. And yet, here it was, clearly left behind, with a complete absence of any radiant heat to suggest it had been deserted recently. There was even a "Police Aware" sticker in the rear window.

Slowly, Maria turned in a circle, her eyes surveying the surroundings in their entirety. It occurred to her that the car accident had happened near here, but civilization was still miles away. It was one of the reasons that she'd chosen this spot in the first place. But why would Mrs. Summers come back here? And where could she possibly have wandered off to?

Making her way back to the rental car, Maria cut a path across the headlights' beams to reach the driver's side window. She tapped on it once, and waited for Silas to roll down the window. "Get out," she said. "We're continuing this on foot."

She could see the desire to argue with her in his eyes, and lifted a single eyebrow as she took a step away from the car, almost daring him into countermand her order. Instead, Silas visibly gulped and reached to turn off the lights, leaving them in near darkness as he lumbered out to join her on the road.

"Where are we going?" he asked. His voice was still hoarse from the near strangulation earlier.

Maria's eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the forest again. "That way," she announced, pointing off to her left. "But first, we mustn't forget our supplies."

* * *

Dinner was an odd balance of far too many jokes and stiff silences when nobody knew exactly what to say. More than once, Spike caught Holly staring at him and Buffy in wide-eyed anticipation of what more he could only guess. When that happened, he did his best to liven up the conversation again, desperate to keep spirits up and away from the sense of foreboding that was already weighing down the tiny cabin, and was relieved when Joyce seemed to pick up on his intents.

"Who wants to help me clean up?" Joyce announced when the meal was completed.

Automatically, Holly shrank down into her chair, trying to disappear from sight.

"If somebody's too tired to help, somebody's probably ready to go to bed early then," Buffy said loudly.

"I dry!" Holly shouted, leaping from her seat.

Joyce turned expectant eyes to Spike. "Does that mean you're putting away?" she asked.

He glanced at Buffy before answering. "Think Slayer and I have to sort out some of the details 'bout what's goin' on tonight," he said. "Make sure all our i's are dotted and t's crossed."

"Don't forget stakes sharpened," Buffy offered with a smile.

"Well…" Joyce cast a glance back at where Holly waited with a towel in her hand. "…considering the circumstances, I suppose I can let you two off. _This_ time."

Giving her mother a grateful smile, Buffy rose from the table and jerked her head toward the bedroom door. "For some privacy," she said in explanation.

Spike agreed with the reasoning, but every step they took away from the kitchen, he felt Holly's eyes grow heavier and heavier on his back. The little one was terrified beyond belief, and the fact that he couldn't do anything more than try and reassure her that she was going to be safe uprooted every feeling of impotence he'd had since getting the bloody chip. It was almost worse than how he'd felt trying to save Buffy from dying. Fuck, he hated this.

"Are you OK?" Buffy asked, as soon as the door was closed safely behind them.

"Just want this over with," he growled.

"I thought you loved a good fight."

"Do. But not when I stand to lose something that means the world to me." He leveled burning eyes at her. "You of all people should know that, luv."

"We're not going to lose Holly. I'm not going to let that happen."

"And you think I will?" He couldn't contain his pacing, his boots heavy on the wooden floorboard. "What the fuck am I s'posed to do in this, Buffy? You heard the ghost. This chit is _human_. Unless she calls on her demon hordes, I'm goin' to be watching this one from the bench."

"Spike, stop." Her hand shot out as he passed in front of her, grabbing his forearm and yanking him to a halt. "This is why I needed to talk to you. I want you to be the one who keeps an eye out for Holly. I want you to make her your number one priority."

"She already is."

"You know what I mean."

"I know you want me to stay out of the fight."

"That's not what I said."

"Funny, that's what I heard."

Exasperated, Buffy released her hold on his arm and threw her hands up. "Why do I even bother? Oh, yeah. Because I love you, you jerk. Now shut up and _listen_ to me for a change."

Pressing his lips together, Spike crossed his arms over his chest, his feet widespread as he faced off with her. She had a small point, but it didn't negate the worthlessness she seemed to be perpetuating with her request.

"OK," Buffy continued after taking a deep breath to calm down. "This is the way I see it. This is a two-person job. One to take on Maria, one to make sure Holly is safe. Tell me where the flaw in my logic is that doesn't make _you_ the better one to do the Holly job, and I'll let you have a go at the witch."

His eyes blazed. He hated it when she was so fucking right. Didn't mean he was going to admit it out loud though.

"That's what I thought," she said when he remained silent. She lifted a tentative hand to his cheek, and it was all he could do not to flinch away. "This is _our_ fight, Spike. I know that. I know that you made a promise to Holly to protect her no matter what. I just want you to know that I'm making a promise, too. I'm not going to let this bitch hurt _anybody_ I love. That means Holly, that means my mother, and most importantly, that means you. If you've got a problem with that, then speak now, because for some reason, I thought you _liked_ that part of me."

Her eyes were pleading with him, chipping at his frustration as surely as if she'd taken a sledgehammer to it. Exhaling to relieve some of the tension in his body, Spike nodded in acquiescence. "All right," he said. "I s'pose-."

A small knock at the door was followed immediately by the knob turning and both Buffy and Spike turned in time to see Holly poke her head through the crack.

"I'm tired," she said in a tiny voice. "Can Spike read me a bedtime story?"

"Sure, pidge," he replied automatically. His eyes closed when Buffy reached up to kiss his cheek. She was right. This was his responsibility. He was just going to have to do it to the best of his ability, was all.

"Can you tell me the one about the three piggies again?" Holly asked, all of a sudden materializing at his feet.

"Got a better one," he said. He scooped her into his arms. "This one's all about a Slayer and the devilishly handsome vampire who loved her."

* * *

Giles felt his stomach sink as they neared the spot Doyle directed him to. He'd been driving like a madman ever since he'd been told the plan, desperate to make up for the lost time. Maria had started out ahead of them, but she had Silas as a chauffeur, so perhaps some measure could be gained from that.

It was a hope he held onto until he saw the two cars parked at the side of the road. Then, he knew it was too late. Then, he knew he'd not been quick enough.

Both were empty.

"Damn it," Doyle muttered beneath his breath. He turned his head to stare into the inky blackness of the forest, and Giles wished that he could see what was going on in the ghost's intense eyes. He needed to know just how bad this was for them.

"What now?" Paul asked from the back seat.

"We find Maria before she finds Holly," Doyle said, his voice tight with determination. Out of the car before Giles could even kill the engine, he was marching to the rental with long strides, his jaw tight as he reached the trunk and crouched to begin playing with the lock

"What's he doing?" Paul slid forward to peer through the windshield.

"Taking the next step," Giles replied.

He didn't wait to be followed, but instead turned the key in the ignition and exited the car to join Doyle just in time to see the trunk pop open.

"Gotta bless the Powers," Doyle said. He began rummaging around in the car's interior, though when Giles leaned over his shoulder, he could see nothing of consequence.

Paul appeared behind them, blocking out some of the illumination from the headlights. "What've we found?"

"Nothin'," Doyle commented. "Whatever she had in here, she's taken it with her." Straightening, his gaze returned to the forest, all humor vanished. "Looks like we're hoofing it, men. We can only pray that we find Maria first. Now, go get your weapons."

* * *

The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the flames in the fireplace, and the clink of the dishes as Buffy put them away. From behind the closed bedroom door, Buffy imagined she could hear the low rumble of Spike's voice, and found comfort in the fact that Holly was safe in there with him, tucked away in the bed with the pillows cushioned around her. He would make sure she stayed unscathed by whatever might come, most likely even with his life.

She was reaching to put the last of the glasses into the cupboard when a knock resounded throughout the room. Buffy jerked, her shoulders tensing. When she glanced at her mother, she saw Joyce's eyes slide to the front door, and slowly, Buffy's followed the same path.

Silence.

The curtains were still drawn so she couldn't see if anything was actually out there, or if it was merely a trick of her nerves. Holding her breath, Buffy waited.

Until the knock came again.

This time, there was no mistaking the fact that it was someone at the front door. Immediately, her hand curled around the knife that still sat on the drying rack, and she stepped in front of her mother, motioning for her to stay quiet.

The ghosts didn't knock. There was nobody else it could be except an unwanted guest.

Before Buffy could get any closer, the door flew open, slamming against the wall as the broken lock splintered into tiny shards. A small, middle-aged woman stood on the threshold, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes black with flashing magic.

"Where is she?" she said, and lifted her palm to face Buffy.

To be continued in Chapter 52: Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer…


	52. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Giles and Doyle got to Maria's car too late, and Maria has shown up at the cabin while Spike is putting Holly to bed…

* * *

He'd been too busy telling the story of what had happened at Thanksgiving to notice the footfalls on the front porch. It wasn't until the faint knock at the door had stilled all action from the outer room that Spike hesitated in his tale, lifting a finger to his lips to indicate Holly should remain quiet while he crept to the closed bedroom door to listen.

The closer proximity was a waste, however, when the walls reverberated from the blast of the front door being slammed open. Spike's hand was already on the knob to lunge into the clash between the new arrival and Buffy when he made the mistake of glancing back at the bed.

Only the top of Holly's head and her eyes were visible from where she'd burrowed beneath the blankets. Staring at him in silent terror, the child was quivering from the force she was exerting over her body not to respond to the obvious threat on the other side of the door.

Spike hesitated.

As much as he wanted to go out and see what the hell was going on, he'd made a promise. Two of them, actually, though they were essentially the same. He'd sworn to Holly that he wouldn't let any harm befall her, and he'd vowed to Buffy to protect the little girl, no matter what. He couldn't just abandon her now.

Quickly, he assessed the situation. If the fight moved into the bedroom, there were few places for the little one to hide while he and Buffy took care of business. Spike didn't like the fact that anything that happened in there would leave Holly so vulnerable, but being cornered in the room like they were didn't leave him much of an option, either.

His eyes fell on the two windows. One pointed to the front of the house and was clearly visible from anyone who stood on the porch. The other, however, was on the side, facing the direction of the lake. It would be possible to climb out of it without being detected, as long as whoever it was at the door - and he strongly suspected that it was that bitch Maria at this point - didn't have a perimeter of guards stationed around the house.

Silently, Spike began scooping up the clothes that were scattered about the room, grabbing anything he could add as a layer to Holly to shield her from the winter cold. Her shoes were in the outer room, but if he put a few pairs of socks on her and carried her instead of letting her walk on the snow, she should be safe enough from frostbite.

She seemed to understand what it was he doing without having to be told. Pushing back the blanket, Holly rolled off the bed to keep it from creaking and landed with a whisper onto the floor. She stood still as Spike dressed her, only helping when he caught her little toe on the first sock. By the time she was done, she might as well have been papoosed, with the only exposed part on her body her tiny little face.

He could hear voices in the outer room, but he didn't have time to dwell on who they were or what they were saying. Picking Holly up in his arms, he grabbed the blanket off the bed and managed to looped it over his arm as he walked silently to the window.

"Where are we going?" Holly's whisper was barely a breath in his ear.

"Somewhere safe," he replied, just as quietly.

She stayed silent as he undid the latch. Praying that it wouldn't creak, Spike pushed it open just enough to allow them to slither through.

"Spike…" Holly whispered before he could throw a leg over the sill. "I don't do down."

"You do with me, pidge." He tightened his grip and flashed smile he didn't feel. "Now hang on."

* * *

A blast of cold air swirled around Buffy's ankles as she glared at the new arrival. "Rude, much?" she snapped. "You're going to have to pay for a new door, you know."

The woman's eyes slid past Buffy to settle on Joyce, narrowing slightly at the recognition. "I see you found your daughter after all," she said. "How charming."

A rustle of movement behind Maria - who else could it be, considering that she knew Buffy's mom - made all the women start in surprise, though neither Maria nor Buffy lowered their hands.

"My apologies," the heavy man stammered as he stooped to pick up the weapon he'd been carrying. His breath was huffing in white clouds around his head, and his cheeks were crimson from the cold. To Buffy, he looked very much like he was going to drop dead on the front step from a heart attack, and briefly, she wondered just who the man really was in all this.

"I asked you a question, young lady," Maria said.

"Yeah, right after you barged in here uninvited. Did I mention rude? I'm not so sure that deserves any special treatment, to be honest."

"Considering I can kill you as easily as look at you, I would think you'd be a little more interested in being nice to me."

Buffy smiled. "I think you'd be surprised just how often I hear that."

She acted with Slayer speed.

With deadly accuracy, Buffy threw the knife she'd been holding straight for Maria's chest, before grabbing her mother and tossing her to safety behind the couch. Before she could join her, though, she saw Maria flick her fingers at the oncoming weapon, slowing its path in mid-air just long enough to step out of its way. Instead of the witch, the blade embedded itself in the heavyset man's gut, and he fell to his knees with a startled shriek, clutching the wound.

"Damn," Buffy muttered. Diving to join her mother behind the sofa barricade, she said to her, "Please tell me that was a bad guy."

Joyce nodded. "That must be the other Watcher," she said. "The one Rupert and Paul were so wary of."

"It's a good thing I don't work for the Council any more, then," Buffy said as she reached under the couch for the weapons bag that was stowed there. "Something tells me they might not be so excited about me stabbing one of their own guys."

"You weren't aiming for him. Maria ducked."

She couldn't help but grin. "Go Mom, on the justification for my senseless violence."

"Just as long as you start aiming some of it at that bitch. I don't want her to get her hands on -."

The couch was flipped forward by some unseen force, cutting off the conversation and leaving them exposed to Maria again. "Get my hands on who?" Maria asked. "You wouldn't be speaking of Holly, now would you?"

"I don't know who _you're_ talking about," Buffy said. Slowly, she eased her bottom over the open end of the bag, her hand moving carefully in its interior to wrap around a stake. Maria wasn't a vampire, but it would do in a pinch. "But Mom was talking about me. Prized daughter and all."

"Yes. Prized, indeed."

"Maria…" The man at the door lifted his head to gaze helplessly at his partner. "Help me."

"Shut up, Silas." She didn't even look at him, her venomous gaze locked on Buffy. "Give me the girl, Miss Summers, and I'll spare your life. It's a fair trade. I strongly suggest you take it."

She rolled her eyes. "Except whatever you do to her is going to _kill_ me. I may be blonde, but I'm not stupid."

"Maria…" Silas' voice was even more insistent. "You must…help me."

"And I told you -."

"I'm bleeding out on the floor," he interrupted. He coughed, and a spattering of crimson sprayed from his mouth to speckle the wood beneath him. "If I die…"

But the rest of the thought went unsaid as another paroxysm took control of his body, and he wheezed and panted as he tried to regain some semblance of peace.

Maria hesitated, clearly caught in some dilemma that was known only to her. While Buffy watched, the woman edged back until she was within arm's reach of Silas, and then rested slim fingers on the pulse point in his neck.

"Damn it," Maria said. Her gaze was black again when she turned to look at the two Summers women, and the single word that came out of her mouth was quiet and grim. "_Impedio_."

Buffy saw nothing, but she felt it, most definitely. A molasses taking control of her muscles and making them leaden, impossible for her to move with any dexterity. Her grip on the stake slackened, the wood tumbling to the floor, and it took all her strength simply to rise to her feet.

"What…did you…do?" she demanded. Well, she _tried_ to sound demanding. With as much effort as it was taking even to speak, she sounded more like a broken-down wind-up doll.

But Maria ignored her, content that she'd slowed the Slayer enough to tend to the task at hand. Shoving Silas onto his back, she moved forward to kneel at his side, oblivious to the fact that he was now half-in, half-out of the open doorway. She grimaced when her foot slid in the blood that had pooled on the floor, and began undoing the buttons of his jacket and shirt in order to get to his bare skin beneath.

Though she couldn't move with anything remotely resembling her usual grace and speed, Buffy knew this was her one shot to gain an advantage. Maria wasn't holding back on using her magic, and once she got around to doing whatever it was she was doing with the Watcher, she wouldn't refrain from turning that magic back on the occupants of the cabin. Briefly, Buffy wondered whether or not Spike was listening on the other side of the bedroom door. It was impossible for him not to have heard the door being forced open, but so far, there was yet to be a peep made from the adjoining room.

She didn't have time to dwell on that, though. She had to trust that Spike was doing his best to protect Holly. All that mattered was that neither of them was out in the middle of all this.

Her hands weren't going to work with a fine weapon; the fact that she'd been unable to hold onto the stake was testimony to that. Something bigger, then. Something within easy reach. Something deadly.

The heat from the fire just behind Buffy was starting to get just a tad too uncomfortable on the backs of her legs. She started to edge away from it, when a sudden picture of what exactly she was walking away from sprang before her mind's eye.

Buffy smiled, in spite of the seriousness of the situation. It would actually be kind of funny if it worked.

* * *

The instant she saw Buffy glancing at the mantle, Joyce knew what her daughter had in mind.

Watching from where she'd been locked frozen by the spell, Joyce saw Buffy edge backwards toward the fire, the upended couch serving to obscure her from Maria's sight. As if in slow motion, Buffy's arm lifted, stretched, came into contact with one of the antlers of the deer head mounted above the fireplace. She didn't settle there, though. Instead, Buffy curled her hand around the animal's stuffed nose, a larger target that didn't require the finer motor skills she seemed to currently lack.

Their eyes met. Understanding passed between them, and Joyce held her breath as she waited for Buffy to make the move.

In the doorway, Silas groaned in pain. It was that moment Buffy chose to tear the deer head from its mount, the sound masked by the Watcher's grunts of discomfort. Swinging it forward, she aimed directly at Maria's back. The arc of her arm was languid and definite, but the moment Buffy opened her hand to let it go, the animal took on its own energy, free from the fetters of the magic, and soared through the air.

It collided with Maria's back, one of the antlers embedding in the witch's shoulder and sending her tumbling forward onto Silas' torso. As soon as contact was made, the spell around Buffy and Joyce was shattered, sending them lurching sideways and to the floor, off-balance from the sudden freedom.

Silas began shrieking beneath Maria, and pushed at the weight that held him down. The witch's eyes were still open, and the jarring movement of Silas' scrambling was enough to dislodge the precarious hold the antler had in her flesh.

"You…" Maria hissed. She turned black eyes to Buffy, her hand reaching around to the bloody wound on her shoulder. Sparks jumped between her palm and the injury, glowing brighter as they made contact, and the witch growled in pain.

"This isn't over, Slayer," she said. Somehow, she rose to her feet, and in a blinding flash, disappeared.

* * *

OK, so that hadn't gone _exactly_ as Buffy had intended, but the fact that Maria was nowhere to be seen had to be better than having her around.

"Spike!" Buffy called out, rushing for the bedroom. She leapt over the injured Watcher in her haste, knocking him back to the floor with a groan, and threw open the door.

The bedroom was empty. The blankets were pulled from the bed, and the curtains on the far window billowed from the slight breeze drifting from outside.

"It looks like Spike got her to safety," Joyce said, suddenly behind her.

"Yeah, for as long as Maria was here," Buffy replied. She turned her heated gaze back to Silas. "Problem is, we don't know where she went to. And worse, Spike doesn't know she's out _there_ now."

* * *

He just wanted to get some distance between them and the cabin. Wrapped up in the blanket, Holly was trembling against him as he ran, but Spike knew it wasn't from the cold. Pidge was terrified, and even with his strong arms keeping her close, she was having a hard time not panicking about the situation. It was probably too similar to other close encounters the little one had had with this Maria; Spike just hated that he couldn't do something more than he already was.

His range was limited with the magical perimeter hemming them in. Angling himself toward the lake, Spike kept crooning under his breath in a vain attempt to distract Holly from the moment, but he held little hope that it was actually working. He wasn't even sure how long he could keep her out there. Buffy wouldn't mess around in delaying to kill the witch, but what if the bitch pulled some mojo of her own?

Spike stopped. What if the Slayer needed him? Here he was running away, and she could very well be lying dead or dying back at the cabin.

The edge of the blanket fell back and Holly tilted her head to look at him. "Why aren't we moving?" she asked in a tiny voice.

His doubt vanished when he saw the trust gleaming from her eyes. Buffy was an amazing Slayer; she would be able to hold her own. And she'd given him a task, a very important one. Spike wasn't about to let her down now.

"Just gettin' my bearings, moptop," he replied. He pretended to peer into the darkness, and then nodded. "Fancy takin' a look at the lake?"

* * *

She'd expected to appear back at the car. That was how she'd configured the teleportation spell to work. Instead, Maria found herself standing in the middle of the forest, her shoulder aching in spite of the magic balm she'd placed on the injury. When she took a step forward, she was met with an electrical charge from some unseen force, and fell onto her ass from the impact.

A barrier. Meant to protect Holly, no doubt. And now it kept her from leaving.

Damn interfering Powers.

However…if there was a wall, there was a reason for that wall. Holly had to be here, just as she'd originally thought.

Slowly, Maria rose back to her feet, ignoring the throbbing of her shoulder as she turned around and surveyed the dark forest. She and Silas had traipsed through the trees, stumbling across the cabin completely by accident. Could she find it again so easily?

"…my bearings, moptop."

She stiffened at the man's voice, her head jerking toward the sound. She couldn't see anything in the murk, but after a moment of silence…

"Fancy takin' a look at the lake?"

Then, footsteps. The crunch of snow under heavy feet.

Maria smiled.

Perhaps finding the cabin wasn't necessary, after all.

To be continued in Chapter 53: She Didn't See Me Creep…


	53. She Didn't See Me Creep

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: At the first sign of Maria's arrival, Spike took off with Holly in order to keep her safe, but the witch teleported out into the forest after being driven off by Buffy…

* * *

Storming from the bedroom, Buffy marched straight for the prostrate Watcher, and hauled him into the warmth of the room, kicking the broken door as closed as it was going to get behind her. He groaned, clutching at his stomach, but she pushed his hands out of the way to expose the wound.

"Get the first aid kit from the bathroom," she instructed her mother.

"It's…too late," Silas said.

"It's never too late," Buffy shot back. "But if you're going to keep the negative attitude, I might just let you bleed to death after all." She grimaced, looking down at her now bloody hands. "Well, maybe not. You're getting it all over the floor and it's going to be a bitch to clean up."

He squinted as he looked up at her, as if he couldn't believe what she was doing. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I had no choice -."

"OK, you're going to have to stop right there," she interrupted. "There's always a choice and if you're about to tell me Maria was blackmailing you or something into helping her, you're only going to piss me off even more. I suggest you shut up." She glanced up when Joyce approached with the kit. "Thanks, Mom," she said, taking it from her.

The edges of the wound were clean, and Buffy chewed at her lip as she decided if it was worth taking the time to stitch him up. She wanted to get out and find Spike, let him know it was OK to come back to the cabin for now. She hadn't anticipated having to spend time taking care of the man who'd helped Maria find them.

In the end, she merely staunched the flow of blood and bound him as tightly as she could. For his part, Silas held to her request and stayed silent for the duration of her tending, but she was very aware of his eyes on her while she worked.

"There," she announced, sitting back on her heels. "All done."

"Thank you," he said. Then… "Is it true, then? Have you been harboring Maria's daughter?"

Joyce snorted. "I can't believe you fell for that story," she said to him contemptuously.

"What? What story?"

"Holly's _three_," Buffy said. "She's not any relation to Maria."

"But…the ritual…"

"You mean, _Maria's_ little game to kill all the Slayers? Hate to disappoint, but you guys had it all backwards. The only thing Holly's a threat to is chocolate."

His eyelids fluttered shut at the pronouncement, his breathing shallow. "Should've known," he murmured. His voice was heavy with self-recrimination. Then, his eyes shot open again, more bright and demanding than they'd been since his arrival. "Remove the bandages, Miss Summers. You must kill me."

"What? Why? And this isn't something you could've told me _before_ I wasted all that time patching you up?"

"The ritual…it requires Watcher blood in order for it to work. Something about…completing the circle, Maria said. That's why she saved me. She needs me in order to complete it. I'd thought…she'd said Watcher blood would counter Holly's intent, but if what you say is true-."

"You're the last ingredient in Maria's Slayer stew," Buffy finished. Her lips thinned. "Well, I'm not going to kill you, so you're out of luck there."

"But you must!"

"We'll find another way. If Maria does come back, we'll just stop the ritual using good old-fashioned violence." Standing, she went behind his head and grabbed beneath his armpits to drag him toward the bathroom. "For now, you're going to hide while I go get Spike and Holly back here. He doesn't know Maria's on his side of the wall now, and I can't risk her finding him without having some back-up."

Joyce hovered near the entrance with Buffy's coat. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"I'm thinking hiding is a good strategy right now," Buffy replied. "I don't know if Maria's been contained by the magical fence or not. If she hasn't, we might have a little more time, but if she has…"

She left the thought unfinished. They both knew this was the only shelter within the confines of the forest. A hurt Maria would likely return if she had nowhere else to go.

"I won't be long," Buffy promised, shrugging into her coat as she headed for the door. "Just stay put, OK? I don't want to have to go looking for you, too."

With that, she vanished into the cold winter night.

* * *

Doyle had warned them about the barrier that prevented Buffy and Spike from leaving, but they didn't have much choice but to hope that they were able to stay on the right side of it while they searched the forest. Splitting up meant they covered more ground, though Giles was beginning to suspect that just meant more spinning of their wheels. So far, he'd found only a dead squirrel. When it came to tracks, the forest looked very much like it had been swept clean.

He ran into Doyle near the lake he'd been circumventing, but the ghost only shook his head as they approached each other. "Damn," Giles muttered, and squinted into the darkness. "Do you have any clue how Paul is doing?"

"I haven't seen him since we left the road," Doyle replied. "I'm about to head off to the cabin. I think we might've been too late."

"I haven't encountered the barrier you mentioned. Have I managed to cross it without realizing?"

"No, you're still on the civilization side." He pointed out to the middle of the lake. "It cuts through there and makes a circle around the house. If you-." He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing. "Uh oh," he said, and then sighed.

"I hate that sound," Giles complained, but turned to see what Doyle was watching.

On the other side of the lake, a rustle of shadowed movement emerged from the trees. It was man-shaped, though any features it had were indiscernible from that distance. Only the glow of the moonlight of the man's white hair gave Giles any indication who it was.

"Spike…" he said.

"And Holly," Doyle added.

Giles peered more closely, then shook his head. "Where?"

"He's carrying her. I can see her hair poking out from the blanket he's got her wrapped up in."

"What in blazes is he trying to do?"

"I don't know," Doyle admitted. He jerked his head toward the lake. "I think we need to get a closer look."

* * *

It was the scent of blood that he caught first. Fresh and heady with heat, it called to Spike through the dark, taunting him with its growing proximity, offering him a quick meal if only he'd turn around. It was human, and maybe any other time, Spike would've succumbed to its lure, but not now. Now, he had to keep Holly away from the bitch back at the cabin.

They stepped from the cluster of trees to look out over the still-frozen lake. Moonlight sparkled across its crusty surface, and even Holly took a moment to appreciate its beauty.

"Pretty," she murmured, her small face turned to the horizon.

"Always been a little partial to this, haven't you?" Spike asked softly.

"It looks like home."

The ensuing silence heightened the sounds of the forest behind him, and Spike heard footsteps whispering across the snow at his back. It was the source of the flowing blood, strange and piquant, but the mystery of who it could be only brought a surge of fear to Spike's mind.

"Want you to do something for me, moptop," he said. Slowly, quietly, he crouched on the shore, setting the child down to stand in the snow. "Want you to take a little walk, maybe go see if you can catch any of those moonbeams for me."

She didn't look to where he gestured toward the lake, her eyes dark as they stared intently at him. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

"Nothin'," he replied. He unwound the blanket from around her, glancing down to her feet and praying that they were protected enough from the cold. There was no way for him to know if he was doing the right thing-the ice looked like it was going to hold, but that just might be a trick on his eyes-but if it really was Maria behind him, the more distance between her and Holly, the better.

"Are you coming with me?"

"Not just yet, pidge. Got some business to take care of first." Grasping her shoulders, he met her eyes with all the love and power he could muster. "I need you to make me a promise, though. Until we get back to the cabin, I need you to do whatever I tell you, no questions asked. Understand?"

"OK."

He started to stand, but was startled when tiny arms wrapped around his neck, her warm breath tickling in his ear.

"I love you, Spike."

Squeezing his eyes shut against the rush of emotion that her simple words evoked, Spike hugged her back, careful not to hold her too tight. "Love you, too, pidge," he whispered, and then pushed her gently toward the ice. "Now go."

She was ten feet out onto the ice when he heard a dry stick crack in half behind him. "Stealthy's really not your thing, is it?" he drawled, slowing turning around to see the new arrival.

She wasn't what he was expecting. Short gray hair, a slim form only slightly larger than the Slayer. _This_ was the witch that had the Powers running so scared? His respect for them had just dropped even more.

But it _was_ her blood he'd been smelling, and he saw how one of her shoulders drooped more than the other. Buffy'd probably got a good piece of her before the witch had scarpered off, which meant that she could be hurt. Maybe this Maria bitch wasn't as powerful as everyone kept saying.

She frowned, her eyes narrowing as they scrutinized him closely. "You're a vampire," she said, and the fact that it was the last thing she'd expected to find rang clearly through the night air.

Spike snorted. "Not so bright either," he commented. "How is it the likes of you has got half the county runnin' so scared?"

Ignoring his question, her eyes slid over his shoulder. He almost groaned out loud when he saw the delight shine there; she must've caught sight of the little one.

"You didn't kill her," she commented, turning back to him with even more confusion. "Why go to all the trouble of getting her away from the Slayer and then not kill her?"

She didn't know he and Buffy were in this together. Throwing back his shoulders, Spike decided to see how far he could take this new twist.

"Because the daft chit's not scared of me," he said, with mock annoyance. "What fun is the kill if I can't taste the fear in her blood?"

Maria's lips quirked. "They broke her sense of right and wrong, keeping her around all those vampires all the time," she said. "It's highly unlikely you'll be able to overcome that without some sort of aid."

"Yeah, well, I would've thought the Slayer would've taught her otherwise."

"The Slayer is just a temporary guardian for her."

He took a step nearer. "Sounds to me, you've got more than a little knowhow on this particular meal of mine," Spike said. "Care to share?"

"Not really." When he took another step, her palm came up, poised for an attack. "I suggest you stop there," Maria said, her voice cold. "Any closer, and I _will_ kill you."

It was a stalemate. While Spike knew that she held all the power in their current struggle, he also knew that the witch apparently had no clue he couldn't do a thing to harm her directly. She was still treating him like a threat, which definitely worked to his advantage at the moment. He had a sneaking suspicion it was the only reason he wasn't already dead.

"What's a tasty morsel like you doin' all the way out here, anyway?" he asked. Experience told him the charm worked regardless of the age or sex of the intended party, and he was willing to play it for as long as he needed to. He gestured toward her shoulder. "And should I be worried 'bout whoever it was who already got a taste?"

"I'm here for the child," she said. "The Slayer proved…uncooperative."

"That's funny. I found her a right doddle."

Her chin jerked toward the ice behind him. "It would appear that Holly's not nearly as accommodating. You're letting her get away without even blinking."

"Holly? Is that her name? I was just callin' her 'dinner.'"

"Then, your _dinner_ is getting away." She paused, eyes narrowing. "I'm beginning to think that maybe this situation isn't as I originally thought."

He was losing her, but before Spike could get her back to her misconception, there was a crash from the forest.

* * *

The rumble of a man's voice pulled Paul back in the direction of the lake. He'd already walked by it once with no results, but apparently someone was out there now. Since the voice was male, he assumed it was Giles or Doyle, and with Paul's hands and feet currently numb from the cold, he was eager to reunite with his partners and get back to the car. He desperately needed to warm up.

When he heard Maria, her tone calm, he froze in his tracks. She _was_ here. Every instinct in his body told him to flee, but Paul swallowed down the lump of fear in his throat and forced his feet to remain still, listening to the conversation playing out on the other side of the trees.

"…a right doddle."

Who was that? Paul wondered. An accent from home, coarse but with a hint of refinement beneath its veneer. Was there another Watcher involved in this that he didn't know about?

Maria seemed to be unclear as to who he was, as well. As Paul listened to the conversation, his body pressed forward, inching around the tree that provided him shelter from being seen too readily. First one foot, and then the other, but when he took the third step, his heel found a hole beneath the snow and slipped. His ankle twisted, sending him crashing into the scraggly bush at his side, and he swallowed a mouthful of snow as his face was buried in a drift.

Strong hands pulled him from the cold, but when he was righted, he found himself staring into a set of golden eyes instead of Maria's. Paul shrieked in fright, prompting the vampire to clamp a hand over the Watcher's mouth to silence him, but surprisingly, none of it hurt. It was almost as if the demon was just doing his best to keep him in check.

"Paul. What an interesting surprise."

His gaze flew past the vampire to see Maria approaching. There was an odd tilt to her body, as if she'd been hurt, and then he saw the unmistakable stain along her shoulder. His eyes widened.

"You know this wanker?"

"Apparently, not as well as I thought I did," Maria replied. She was obviously amused by the situation. "You've shown more fortitude than I would've imagined, Paul. When exactly did you grow a spine?"

He didn't answer. How could he? His tongue was lodged somewhere in his throat, his panic rising. All he could do was stare at her in growing trepidation.

"Can I get back to my dinner now?" The vampire sounded bored. In Paul's experience, a bored vampire was never good. "This one's likely to be a tad stringy for my tastes."

"Not yet," Maria said. "I have a use for him."

The knife appeared from nowhere, and Paul's heart hammered inside his ribcage as she stepped closer. For a second, he thought the demon's hold on him loosened, but quickly dismissed the thought as ludicrous.

Especially when Maria grabbed his hand and ran the blade across his palm.

"Ow!" The cry was muffled behind the vampire's hand. Tears of pain stung Paul's eyes and he began to sob as Maria sliced his flesh again, this time perpendicular to the first mark, creating a deep X across his skin.

"What's that for?" the vampire asked.

Maria took Paul's hand in hers as if to shake it, and an electric tingle made the blood he could see flowing sizzle. "He's just made my life much simpler," she said. Her smile was a virulent gleam in the darkness as she tucked her blood-soaked hand inside her coat as if to protect it. "Now, let's go get your dinner back."

"Don't need your help," the demon said.

"You're getting it. You said it yourself, the child's not scared of you. I need her, which means I need you." Her free hand angled off to the side and a blast of magic set a small tree ablaze before swinging back at the vampire again. "And you'll allow me to come with you to retrieve her or find yourself in flames. The choice is yours."

Paul collapsed to the ground when he was suddenly released. The vampire was muttering under his breath, a collection of colorful invectives that were impossible to ignore, but he was already striding back toward the lake in accordance with Maria's wishes.

Her dark gaze fell with disdain on Paul where he was huddled in the snow. "When I'm done with Holly," she said, "be prepared to feel the extent of my anger, Paul. You're only alive now because I want to ensure that you're punished to the full scope of my powers for your treason."

With a malevolent smile, she turned and followed the bleached vampire.

* * *

Her feet were starting to get cold, but Holly knew that she had to keep walking. Spike hadn't called to let her know it was time to come back yet. Until he did, she would do as she was told. She had been taught well. There were times for playing, and there were times for being serious. This was a serious time.

The ice was making funny sounds every time she took a step. It was solid, and the surface was roughened from the frost, but each step Holly made caused the ice to sound like it was angry at her for walking on it, whining and high-pitched as it scolded her for daring to cross. She stopped more than once, kneeling to pat at the scattered moonlight that danced across the shine, and that was better. If it wasn't so cold, she could do this all night.

She only halted when she heard the footsteps behind her.

"Told you she wasn't scared of me," she heard Spike say.

Turning, she saw him approach her slowly, his eyes focused on her. Behind him, a woman older than Buffy's mom watched her just as obsessively, but the look on her face wasn't anything like the warmth on Spike's. It made her tummy feel all squishy, like the woman wanted to eat her up. For real, not like Spike played at.

Automatically, Holly shrank away.

"Hey now, none of that." Spike's hand shot out and curled around her wrist. It didn't hurt, but nothing he did ever hurt. She let him pull her closer, snuggling into his chest when his strong arms encircled her.

"It would appear you were correct," the woman said. She stepped around to get a closer look at the pair, and Holly saw the blood stains adorning her coat. A knife dangled from the hand she didn't have tucked into her pocket. It looked scary. But not as scary as the woman.

"I think the little one would do just about anything I told her to," Spike said, but it looked like he was almost directing that more at Holly than he was at the other woman. He released his hold on Holly and stepped back. "Like, if I said jump, my gut tells me she'd do it without giving it a second thought."

She saw the request in his eyes and nodded, proceeding to start jumping up and down. Every hop made the ice shudder beneath her, making that squeaky sound she hated so.

"Stop!"

Even though it was the woman who ordered it, Holly complied. This wasn't someone she wanted any angrier.

"You've made your point," the woman continued. "Now, bring her to back to the shore."

She disappeared from Holly's view when Spike crouched again, blocking out anything but the sight of him. His eyes were dark and serious.

"You heard her," he said. "Time to go back to the shore, little one."

His arms were around her again, but where she expected him to pick her up again, Spike instead turned her around so that she faced the opposite shore. It was the same direction she'd been headed in prior to his coming out on the ice. It was away from where she thought the woman wanted them to go. It was away from him.

"Don't fuss about me," he murmured. "I promise I'll be the one to tuck you in tonight."

His hands grasped her upper arms and he pushed her forward. Though he said it in a very low voice, Holly heard the simple order Spike uttered as clearly as if he'd whispered it right in her ear.

"Now run."

To be continued in Chapter 54: The Wrong Shall Fail, the Right Prevail…


	54. The Wrong Shall Fail, the Right Prevail

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Silas has told Buffy that Maria needs Watcher blood in order to complete the ritual, prompting her to go out and find Spike; Spike, in the meantime, has run into Maria but feigns a disinterest in Holly other than as his next meal…

* * *

She couldn't believe her luck. When the Slayer had inadvertently stabbed Silas, Maria had thought her chances at completing the ritual were tenuous at best. It was the only reason she had faltered in forcing the truth from the Summers women; she needed to save Silas at all costs. But stumbling onto Paul in the forest…that was a godsend. A sign, surely. The power that should've been hers to begin with could still be. It was the only reason she could fathom that both a Watcher and the little girl would fall into her hands so easily, so close together in time.

She would just have to dispose of the vampire once they were all back on shore.

Turning her back to begin the trek across the ice, Maria lost sight of Holly when the vampire crouched to pick her up. His deep rumblings as he spoke to the child were nearly unintelligible, but he'd already clearly demonstrated his control over the brat with his little ice trick. She had no doubt that he was merely exercising his sway yet again.

Until she heard the soft pounding of little feet.

Running feet.

Getting quieter as sound could only get when it was moving _away_ from one.

Whirling, Maria turned in time to see Holly skittering across the slippery surface, making a mad dash for the opposite shore. "No!" she cried out. Though her own footing was uneasy, she took chase, only to find her way barred by the blond vampire.

"You let her get away!" she hissed. "Catch her!"

"What?" he asked, all wide-eyed innocence. "You can't catch a little three-year-old all on your own? Must be those old lady legs lettin' you down. Should've eaten your Wheaties this morning, I think."

"Bastard!" Maria spat. Oddly enough, the vampire wasn't trying to physically stop her. He wasn't even attacking. _Why_ wasn't he attacking?

She didn't have time to consider the why. She needed to catch the brat. And if he wasn't going to help her…

Pushing at his chest, she found him immovable, his strength too great for her to overcome. Her lips curled back into a sneer, her palm flattening as she gathered the powers within to set him alight.

"Ah, ah, ahhhh," he scolded, waving a finger in her face as if he were addressing a small, incompetent child. "Turn me into Guy Fawkes, and you're signing your own death certificate, bitch." He looked pointedly down at the ice at their feet. "'Course, it'd be my pleasure-."

She snarled in frustration and hastily changed the spell she was summoning. With a powerful force, the vampire went flying sideways, clearing her path to the child, and she picked up her pursuit yet again.

Holly seemed to sense the new presence behind her, and quickened her pace. It wasn't enough, however. Maria may have been older, but she was still taller, and her strides were longer.

Twenty feet.

Ten.

They were almost halfway across the lake. All Maria had to do was reach out-.

She slammed with full force into the same barrier she'd encountered earlier. Electricity sizzled across Maria's exposed skin, and she was thrown back, away from the magical wall, to land awkwardly on her side. A sudden jolt of pain shot through her injured shoulder. Before she could sit up, she saw the fresh seepage of blood begin to ooze from the wound, soaking into the frost that covered the ice to stain it in pink.

Behind her came the sound of clapping.

"Best spot of entertainment I've had since gettin' stuck in this godforsaken place," the vampire said when she turned to look at him. "Go on, do it again. I'm goin' to wager it's even funnier the second time around."

"You knew," Maria hissed. She struggled to sit up. The balm she'd placed on her wound was fading in light of this new exacerbation, but she didn't care. She just wanted to see this vampire burn. "You were part of this all along."

"Just figured that out, huh?" He shook his head in disappointment. "And here I thought you might actually be a challenge. What a sorry Big Bad you panned out to be."

Fury made her forget the pain. With a snap, Maria's palm turned out, the fireball she'd been tempted to use earlier shooting from her hand, aimed directly at the vampire. She scowled when he dove out of the way, but it only strengthened her resolve.

"You want a challenge?" she said, pushing herself to her feet. "It will be my pleasure."

* * *

They were standing at the edge of the lake, hidden in a copse that lined it, when they saw Spike lead Maria straight to where Holly was standing on the ice. Giles' heart leapt to his throat, his pulse suddenly a jackhammer, but he couldn't tear his gaze from the disaster that was about to transpire.

"You fool," he murmured to Doyle. His tone was biting, his jaw tight. "In trusting Spike, you've doomed Buffy and all the -."

"Wait," Doyle replied. "Just watch."

Giles had no choice, though he didn't understand why the ghost didn't go out and fetch the child away from Spike before it was too late. Holly didn't run from the pair that approached, and when the vampire crouched before her, Giles was convinced Spike was going to take advantage of getting rid of the Slayer, once and for all.

Until he turned the little girl around and practically shoved her in the opposite direction to Maria.

As they surveyed the scene, Holly took flight, with Maria almost immediately pursuing. Spike blocked her path once, but she lifted a hand that sent him flying to the side. Continuing her chase, she seemed almost ready to reach the child when an invisible wall stopped, sending her back to the ice.

"There's your barrier," Doyle commented. He seemed almost amused by the goings-on, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he watched Holly head straight toward them.

"He…he _saved_ her." Giles' gaze was back on Spike, watching the vampire clap at Maria's misfortune, no doubt taunting her with some inanity that would -.

The fire lit up the night.

Yes. Piss her off. At least that part of Spike's personality hadn't changed.

"Get Holly."

Doyle's order was accompanied by his hand wrapped around Giles' bicep, forcing him to divert his attention from the fray with Spike and Maria to the approaching child. Her pace was slowing, but the moment she saw Doyle, her face lit up.

"You came back!" she exclaimed.

"Think I could stay away from my best girl?" Doyle replied with a grin. "I taught you better than that."

She hesitated when she saw Giles, her eyes darting between the two men in slight trepidation.

"It's all right," Doyle assured. "He's Buffy's Watcher."

"Hello." Stiffly, he stuck out his hand. "I'm Giles."

Her mouth made a tiny O, as recognition of the name wiped the fear from her face. She ignored his hand, however, and barreled forward, wrapping her arms around Giles' legs, almost knocking him over from the suddenness of it.

"Are you here to save Spike and Buffy?" she asked.

He exchanged a quick look with Doyle before awkwardly patting the child's head. "We're here to help," he said.

An explosion of fire from the middle of the lake made her jump, twisting to look and see what made the noise. "She's not a very nice lady," she said.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Giles' mouth twitched in amusement. "No," he agreed, "she's not." He turned to Doyle. "Spike's defenseless against Maria. We should get out there and help him."

But it was Holly who answered.

"Spike's OK," she said. "He promised he would be."

* * *

This was a bloody stupid idea, he decided. He was going to end up exploding into ash before he got a chance to do otherwise.

Dodging the first fireball had been simple. Spike had known she'd resort to that before she'd even turned on him; the bitch was terrifyingly predictable. Had he been this bad when he'd been out for his own purposes? Fuck, he hoped not.

Though it would certainly explain why Buffy'd always managed to get the better of him.

Avoiding her first blast, however, had just pissed the witch off even more. She was bleeding again; her face-first encounter with their electric fence had re-opened her wound as well as shorting out her temper. The coppery scent that filled the air was distracting him, so when the third fireball managed to scorch the hem of his jeans, Spike got more than a little annoyed with himself for his own inadequacy.

"Right," he muttered. "Gotta focus."

He rolled to the right when the next blast came, and was satisfied when he felt the frigid wash of water skimming the surface of the ice. So intent on hitting him, the bitch didn't even realize he'd gone full circle, and crouched in the very same spot she'd thrown the first fireball.

"That all you got?" Spike taunted. Adrenaline coursed through his veins with a scalding pulse that reminded him just how long it had been since he'd had a truly good fight. It was going to be heaven to get back to Sunnydale and get to help Buffy with her patrols.

"You talk too much." Each word was pinched from Maria's lips, exhaustion and pain lading her every effort. She lifted her hand again, though this time, the arc of her arm was considerably slower than before.

"And you don't pay attention when the rug's about to get pulled out from beneath you."

His eyes glittered as he saw her hesitate in confusion. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "You have nowhere to run. I _will_ kill you."

"Wrong on both counts." His heel felt the soft give in the ice beneath him, and he pressed just enough to feel it give some more.

Another fireball skidded past him, and he lurched sideways to avoid the worst of the flame. This time, he heard the distinct whine of the ice cracking.

"Why would a vampire be helping the Slayer?" she asked. "Stringing the child along in order to savor the kill, I can understand. But the rest…" She took a step toward him. "You like to live dangerously, I think."

_That's it, bitch. Just a little closer._

"You don't know the half of it," he said out loud.

"I think I do. I think I could almost find that admirable, if it didn't make you look so pitiful."

_And she thought _I_ talked too much?_ Still, every word out of her mouth meant another second for the ice to weaken, another second for the little one to get to safety. He risked taking a quick glance off to his right, to the shore he'd ushered Holly off toward, and nearly lost his balance when he saw who she was clinging to.

_Guess Watchers run in packs. Least I don't have to worry about the little one now._

Time to get the show on the road. Or under the ice, as the case may be.

* * *

Finding Spike's tracks was easy.

Finding drops of blood near them was alarming.

Finding a terrified Watcher, bleeding and crying as he hid behind a tree, was unexpected.

Buffy hauled him out by the collar, slamming him against the trunk. "Who are you?" she demanded. She grabbed his hand, turning it palm-up to see the jagged cuts across the tender flesh. "Who did this?"

"P- Paul," he stuttered. "There was…a vampire…and…M-M-Maria -."

He cried out in pain when she shoved him again against the bark. "You saw her? Where is she?"

He lifted a shaking hand and pointed off between the trees. Turning her head, Buffy squinted, only to have her vision shocked by a brilliant flash of orange between the dark trunks. The acrid scent of smoke filled her nose.

Fire.

_Spike_.

Dropping Paul to the ground, she broke into a dead run in the direction he'd indicated, crashing through the trees to come to an abrupt halt at the lake's edge. Spike was there, out on the ice, rolling and diving out of Maria's path as she threw a magical firebolt at him. Buffy could see their lips moving, but their words were lost in the night.

Then, Spike looked off to his side, and she followed his gaze to the opposite shore where she saw Holly hugging Giles' legs.

Relief flooded through her. _Giles.__ He's all right._

Her eyes swung back just in time to see Spike dive for Maria. It took the witch by surprise, and the pair fell to the ice. They froze there for a moment, and Buffy was just about to step forward when she saw Spike's arm slacken around the witch's waist, his elbow slamming down onto the ice. Even from the distance, the sound of the surface shattering could be heard, and in the space of two seconds, he and Maria fell through the fissure he created into the water below.

"Spike!" Buffy screamed. Immediately, her knees began pumping as she raced out onto the lake.

* * *

Buffy's panicked shout echoed all the way across the water, diverting the trio's introductions to the scene in the middle of the lake. Holly released her grip on Giles, taking a step closer to the edge.

"Where's Spike?" she asked, her voice faint.

Giles and Doyle exchanged a look. "I'm sure," Giles began, but was stopped when she turned anxious eyes back to them.

"There's a hole," she said. "Did Spike fall?"

"Holly -."

His nerves snapped when she broke into an awkward run toward the water. She was only a few feet away when he stopped her, scooping her flailing form against his chest. Automatically, she started struggling to get free.

"Have to save Spike! Spike can't die! Not Spike! He said he would tuck me in!" Over, and over, and over again, her feelings for the vampire ringing loudly in his ear.

Giles looked over to Doyle. "Go help Buffy," he said tersely. To Holly, he added, "You must calm down. Spike will be fine. Look. He's got Buffy and Doyle to help him."

The steady rhythm of his voice combined with the assertion as to Spike's well-being was enough to make her still, twisting in his arms to see Doyle running to join the Slayer. Even through all the layers that covered the child, Giles could feel the pounding of her heart. It wasn't fear for her own safety; it was fear for Spike, and it was shocking in its intensity.

"Spike will be fine," he repeated, and together, they watched the action unfold out on the frozen lake.

* * *

It was a misnomer that vampires couldn't feel cold. They could. They just didn't bloody care most of the time.

At that moment in time, Spike cared. He'd just gone from being slightly chilly to fucking freezing in the space of half a second, and all he wanted was to get out of the damn lake, once and for all.

His head was splitting from the pain of having thrown himself at Maria. He'd known it would happen prior to his leap, but the potential ache had seemed worth it to make sure the bitch went down. Now, Spike was questioning the wisdom of his choice. Between his disorientation from the pain and the weight of the woman he was determined wouldn't make it back up to the surface, he was struggling not to pass out.

And the frigid temperature of the water wasn't helping a bloody bit.

She'd screamed in his ear when the ice collapsed beneath him, but Spike held on to her waist as they submerged into the black depths. The ice made an effective ceiling, and with only moonlight illuminating the other side, it quickly became impossible to see anything more than an inch in front of his face. He vamped in an attempt to heighten his senses, and while it helped, it only meant he was now able to see the fury in Maria's eyes as she fought against his hold.

God, he hadn't hated anyone as much as this witch since Angelus had come back to muck up his wheelchair-ridden life in Sunnydale.

Rage stoked his determination, making it possible to look past the blinding pain inside his skull as he clamped his hand over Maria's mouth. He could already hear her heartbeat faltering, but it wasn't enough. He wanted her dead. Nothing would satisfy his thirst for retribution more than that.

From somewhere, she found the strength to lift her palm to his chest. It barely touched; if he hadn't seen the flash from her skin, he would never have known it was there.

But he could see the blackening of her eyes, could see the whites as they disappeared into inky pools. And he could see the loathing in her aspect.

And even as he felt her pulse pause, the force of the magic that emanated from her hand into his cold flesh propelled him backwards, upwards, against the flow of the water and into the underbelly of the ice.

After that, everything went black.

* * *

Twenty feet away from the hole, Buffy felt the ice buckle beneath her feet, and stopped, swaying as she tried to regain her balance. She glanced down. Around her boots, a thin layer of water was washing over the frosty surface, lapping against her soles. It was all melting, disintegrating before her eyes. Between the fireballs and the force Spike had exerted to shatter the ice, the hard crust was softening into a dangerous landscape, capable of disappearing beneath Buffy's step and pitching her into a very cold and murky world.

"Spike!" she called out again, searching the break in the ice for his familiar bleached hair. It would be easy to spot. The water was like pitch, mirroring the shine of the moon overhead in glistening ripples. "Spike!"

Her eyes lit on Doyle's approaching figure, and watched as he hit the same turbulence in the surface that she had, skittering to a halt and meeting her gaze. "Do you see him?" he shouted out.

"No!" Dropping to her knees, she began inching forward, desperate to get to the edge of the broken ice to search the water more closely. Her fingers were numb where they touched the surface, melting the frost it encountered more effectively than the sheet of water with every slide forward, but Buffy was oblivious to the cold encroaching her bones. She had to get to Spike. She had to save him.

One of the handprints she left in the broken crust caught her eye, driving her to pause. It was darker than the one before it, like something was covering the ice on its lower side, and she squinted into the darkness to try and make out more detail.

Just…black.

Carefully, Buffy pressed her hand onto the ice off to the side, and then stretched to see the imprint she had made. It was lighter there, and even through the cloudy ice she could see the faint patterns made in the water as it flowed below.

Her gaze returned to the blackness. Something was below the ice.

Or someone.

She felt rather than saw Doyle's approach as the ice shuddered beneath her knees. He had circumvented the worst of the hole, creeping slowly but surely, until now he stood just to her side. "Something's down there," Buffy said, not looking up.

Reaching past, Doyle brushed more of the frost away, revealing more of the black. Then, just a foot away, there was a break in the lack of color. A sliver of light.

Kind of like a lock of hair.

"It's Spike!" she said, her voice rising. Her fist lifted to smash through the ice, but before she could bring it down, Doyle's fingers curled around her wrist.

"Do that, and you both go tumbling," he warned. "Back up. I'll get him."

Buffy met his solemn gaze. He was right. She had to trust him.

Creeping away, she kept her eyes locked on the black and white shadows beneath the ice, desperate for some sign of life from them. As soon as her footing felt surer, she nodded to Doyle, who turned to the frozen surface.

The ice splintered where he drove his force through it, but it didn't break as cleanly as it had for Spike. Instead, blocks folded upward, creating a chasm wide enough for Doyle to reach into, and his head disappeared for a moment as he leaned to haul whatever was creating the shadows back into the moonlight.

Her breath caught when she saw the bleached hair dripping onto the ice.

His skin was pale blue, his eyes closed, and as Doyle hauled him away from the opening, Buffy saw the way Spike's clothes were glued to his lean frame, wet like a second skin. It was torture to wait until Doyle was close enough for her to help, but as soon as she could, Buffy grabbed onto the unyielding flesh of her lover and pulled him flush against her body.

"You idiot," she whispered. Her hands and eyes searched for any sign of injury, any sign of life. "You stupid, pigheaded, wonderful idiot."

"You have to get out of the cold," Doyle observed. "The damp will just make you sick, and frankly, I don't want to have to be the one to explain to Spike why you're dying from pneumonia when he comes around."

She laughed, in spite of the chill seeping through her clothes, and her eyes darted to the now still water lapping at the edges of the broken ice. "Is she dead?" Buffy asked.

Doyle shrugged. "Hard to tell. But I'll stick around to make sure she doesn't go Die Hard on us. You get everyone back to the cabin. I'll be there soon enough."

She only nodded. In the distance, she could Giles carrying Holly around the edge of the lake, and by the time she'd managed to drag Spike to the shore, they were close enough for her to see the worry in his eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I've been better," Buffy replied. A groan from the body at her feet prompted her to return her attention to Spike, bending to help him lean against a nearby tree as his eyelashes fluttered open.

"Hello, beautiful," he murmured.

Two words had never sounded so good.

"You're crazy, you know that?" Buffy said.

"Did we win?"

"So far, it looks like it."

The corner of his mouth lifted, though she could tell that even that was an exertion for him. "Then crazy was worth it, don't you think?"

Shaking her head, Buffy leaned in and brushed her lips across his in a soft kiss. "Don't scare me like that again, OK?" she whispered, her eyes searching his.

Spike nodded. "Don't really fancy another swim in the drink again, anyway." His gaze slipped past her, warming even more when it alighted on Holly in Giles' arms. "Did me proud, pidge," he said. "Good girl."

Wriggling free, Holly tumbled to the ground before racing over to hug Spike. "I don't like the lake any more," she said, her voice muffled against his neck. "I don't want to play here again."

"Think that makes two of us." Gently, Spike patted her back, but his focus was on the growing confusion in Giles' countenance. "If you drove here," he said to the other man, "I'm hitching a ride back to the Hellmouth with Joyce once we can blow this joint."

Even Giles couldn't hide a twitch of a smile at the veiled reference to the accident that had set the whole chain of events into motion. "It's good to see you, too, Spike," he said.

"Can you walk?" Buffy asked. Gently, she pried Holly away in order to help Spike stagger to his feet. His color was still bad, and his discomfort obvious, but when he looked into her face, she could see the underlying strength that would help him pull through this.

Holly stood solemnly by as Spike leaned against Buffy, his arm around her shoulder as she snaked hers across his back. When he was steady, the little girl reached up and slipped her hand into his free one and tugged.

"Let's go home," she said. "You still have to tuck me in."

To be concluded in Chapter 55: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas…


	55. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Holly ran to safety, Spike pulled Maria through the ice, and the day has been saved…

* * *

By the time sunset came around on New Year's Eve, Spike was ready to kill the lot of them. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Well, maybe it would likely be more than metaphorical for those two new Watcher prats. He hadn't heard such whinging since Xander had been forced to put Spike up in his basement. Taking them out would be mercy kills for all involved.

It hadn't started out so badly. In fact, it had started out bloody good. As soon as they'd turned up back at the cabin, Joyce had gone into mother hen mode, ordering Spike to change out of his wet things before going up to bed in the loft. She'd then set out to prepare a steaming mug of blood with a hot chocolate chaser, allowing Buffy and Holly to be the ones to take the drinks up to him. The peanut gallery even managed to remain silent when the two girls stayed with Spike to curl up beneath the blankets.

The trio had fallen asleep, and Spike had dreamt of finishing off the witch in a much bloodier fashion than drowning, satisfying his hungrier urges for vengeance against the bitch for what she'd done to Holly. Sure, he'd still had the pleasure of being the one to take her down, but it would've been even better to feel her life being drained from her sorry flesh. The bitch deserved pain for what she'd done, lots of it. He just hoped that her drowning had been a long and tortured death.

Waking up with his skin aflame from having two living, breathing, and overly blanketed humans curled into his sides had chased the dreams away. He'd luxuriated in the heat for a grand total of two minutes before the sound of quarreling drifted from below to wake Buffy, prompting her to get up and investigate. Things had gone downhill from there.

While the cabin had been cozy with Buffy, Holly, and himself, the addition of four more adults made it downright cramped now. As the most injured, Silas had commandeered the main bed, but it didn't stop him from barking out requests to any and all who would listen. By the time lunch came around, even Joyce was ready to drive the knife back into the Watcher's gut.

Things went from bad to worse when Doyle showed up. Though he carried with him the good news that Maria hadn't emerged from the lake, all hell broke loose when he brought up the issue of taking Holly away once the clock struck midnight.

Starting with the child in question having a screaming, kicking fit in the middle of the living room as she protested leaving the cabin at all.

"No! No! No!" she shouted, her bare heels pounding into the floor in rhythm with her tiny fists. "Won't go! Won't go!"

Buffy lost her temper when a stray kick caught her in the shin, retreating to the safety of the kitchen while Joyce and Spike tried their hands at calming Holly down. Neither succeeded. When Holly ran for the bathroom and slammed the door shut, Spike figured the discussion was closed when they quickly discovered that nothing short of physical force was going to coax the girl from where she'd retreated.

Spike was wrong.

Now, two hours later, he felt like his head was going to explode from listening to all the options get weighed about Holly's future.

"Will you just bloody make up your minds?" he finally said. He dropped his mug into the sink with a clatter, frustration sharpening his nerves. "She's a girl, not the end of the world. Well, not any more, at least."

"We must weigh all our options," Giles said. "It's the only way to ensure we choose the correct one."

Spike rolled his eyes, but he was cut off from his quick retort by Buffy's support for her Watcher.

"This is the way the team works, Spike," she said. She wasn't accusing him, but somewhere in the green depths of her eyes, he thought he detected a hint of disappointment. "If you're going to help out, it's probably time for you to start getting used to it."

He couldn't counter that. He'd been the one to insist on equal footing once they got back to Sunnydale, but he hadn't anticipated getting sucked into the do-gooders' routine ritual of talking things to death before they actually did anything.

Of course, that didn't mean he had to put up with it now.

"Lemme know when we're takin' off," he said, sauntering to the loft ladder. "I'll just be working on my recuperating in peace and quiet."

He was almost disappointed when nobody tried to stop him, only because it would've been nice to be needed at this stage of the game. Guess all I'm good for is a little muscle, Spike groused silently as he slid between the sheets. Nobody had ever said otherwise, but it would've been nice if they'd at least made the pretense of trying to convince him to stay. That's what the white hats did, after all. They tried to make it about the feelings and not the actual problem. Looked like even after all of Buffy's words to the contrary, he didn't matter enough.

He fell asleep in a foul mood. Happy fucking New Year.

* * *

The creak of the ladder woke him up, but when Spike opened his eyes to blink blearily at his guest, he was surprised to see Giles appear over the top rung. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching carefully to see who would follow. Nobody came.

"How do you feel?" Giles asked.

Spike's brows shot up. "No, straight to the chase, 'stay the hell away from my Slayer,' Rupert? Looks like I lose that twenty to Buffy, then."

"That is not a conversation we're going to have right now," Giles said. "There are too many ears around."

"Slayers don't have super hearing."

"No, but surprisingly enough, three-year-old little girls, do." Leaning against the railing, his gaze remained steady as he repeated his question.

"Not out for the count, if that's what you're hoping," Spike replied. He sat up the rest of the way. The calm countenance of the Watcher was disarming. This was the first time they'd been reasonably alone together, and at the very least, he'd expected a lengthy diatribe about why Spike wasn't good enough to even consider having a relationship with Buffy. Concern about his welfare didn't factor into that particular scenario.

"We've reached a consensus on how best to handle Holly's future," Giles said. "We'd like very much for you to come down to discuss it, but before you do, I'd like a word with you first."

"Here it comes." He sighed. "Lay it on me. Always best to kick a vamp while he's down. Haven't been away from you so long that I don't remember _that_."

Not even a rise from the Watcher. For a second, Spike wondered if he was losing his touch.

"I wish to speak of your involvement in this situation," Giles continued, not missing a beat. "I began to suspect there was something amiss when Maria informed me that Buffy's body hadn't been recovered from the car accident. I couldn't fathom why you might've saved her when it seemed the perfect opportunity for you to be rid of us, once and for all. Then, when Joyce arrived and began sharing more specific details of Holly and her predicament, it became apparent that something was happening to you, that perhaps the chip was forcing you to re-evaluate your wrongdoings as something to be corrected -."

"Hey! You take that back!"

"I'll admit, seeing you with Holly yesterday, my first instinct was to assume you were going to kill her." He held up his hand to ward off the protestation all ready to spill from Spike's lips. "Very obviously, that was never your intention, and then seeing how willing you were to sacrifice yourself in order to ensure Maria's demise, well, it was certainly refreshing to see."

Spike snorted. "Not like I could've drowned by takin' her down with me," he said.

"No, but we're both well aware that there are other ways for a vampire to be neutralized, if not outright killed."

"There a point to this blather of yours, Rupert? 'Cause this is gettin' just a tad longwinded, even for you."

"My _point_, Spike, is that I'd like to thank you for taking the steps necessary to protect both Buffy and the child. It shows considerable growth on your part, and I'm even more convinced that perhaps this chip of yours is the impetus you need to do something better with your life."

Spike was stunned into silence. For the one thing, he'd never in a million years expected to ever hear anything resembling gratitude being offered to him from one of Buffy's crew, let alone her Watcher, but then to have the man express some sort of belief in a greater good for the chip? It was almost ridiculous in its optimism.

He would've laughed out loud if Buffy hadn't told him almost the exact same thing just the night before.

"I don't expect changes to happen overnight," Giles was saying, "but based on what I witnessed last night, I have little doubt that the changes will be forthcoming. Buffy certainly seems to support that belief as well. Strangely enough, she's your second biggest fan currently."

He didn't have to ask who his biggest fan was. Spike already knew it was Holly.

And somehow, he still couldn't find it in him to reply.

"Now that that's said and done, we need you to come back and join the group." Giles straightened and headed for the ladder, not bothering to look back and see whether Spike was complying. "The fate of Holly's future is contingent on your presence."

* * *

It was a somber Spike who followed Giles down the ladder. Chewing at her lip as she watched him step from the last rung, Buffy waited for him to meet her eyes, to look to her for reassurance about what was going on, but it never came. Instead, Spike headed straight for the kitchen and pulled out the remainder of the Jack Daniels he'd been stashing away.

"Anyone fancy a drink?" he said to nobody in particular as he poured out a glass for himself. He didn't even look like he _wanted_ to share, especially when he left barely a swig in the bottom of the bottle. "No? More for me, then," he said, and drained what was left.

"Spike's thirsty," Holly said from where she sat next to Joyce on the couch. She'd finally emerged when Paul had knocked repeatedly at the door, insisting that he had to "use the facilities," and when she'd opened it up to find out what exactly he meant, he'd shot past her, cleanly knocking her from the bathroom, and locked the door behind him.

"Spike's something," Buffy heard him mutter.

"Glad to see you got to enjoy it," Doyle said. He leaned against the wall by the fireplace, grinning at Spike, but Buffy knew it was mostly show. He'd been hiding his tension with glib remarks ever since he'd returned from watching the lake, and she suspected the strain of the past few days was finally beginning to wear on him. I guess even ghosts need to take a break once in a while, she thought.

"Let's get down to business," Giles said.

"That's me," Holly said brightly to anyone who would listen.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Come midnight, the barrier around the cabin will be lifted, and any danger that still exists for Holly will be gone. We'll be free to return to Sunnydale at that point. Spike, have you recovered sufficiently to drive one of the cars?"

"With my eyes bloody shut."

"Yes, well, that might not be the safest way. I'll leave Buffy to convince you not to blinker yourself."

She caught his gaze then, a mixture of confusion and uncertainty she hadn't witnessed since the early days of their new relationship. Offering what she hoped was a comforting smile, Buffy rose to her feet and crossed to stand next to Spike.

"There's three cars," she said in explanation. "Mom's going to take Holly, Giles is going to take Paul and Silas to the hospital, and you and I get the bitchmobile. We figured since you and I have all our stuff here to pack and lug, it's best if we don't hold the others back so they can leave."

Spike frowned, his eyes darting to the couch and back. "Pidge is goin' back to the Hellmouth?" he asked, his voice hesitant.

"Now that she's not bait for Maria," Doyle offered, "we think it's time Holly got some stability. A solid home. Legal guardians."

"Or guardian, singular," Giles said. "There was some debate as to who would be best qualified -."

"Spike! Spike!" Holly called out, pointing.

" - but then there are certain...difficulties that must be addressed. Such as the legality of the process."

"Spike can be legal," Holly offered.

"Not easily, moptop," Spike said gently.

When Buffy looked at him, she was surprised to see pain hiding in the blue of his eyes. He was _disappointed_. It wasn't exactly an unexpected response considering his attachment to the little girl, but she hadn't thought it would be as acute as all that.

Holly's disappointment was almost as strong. "Can Buffy be legal?" she asked, turning hopeful eyes back to Giles.

"Well, yes, but there is something else for us to consider."

Buffy knew what was coming; they'd had this part of the conversation while Holly and Spike were both still absent. She just hoped Giles would be gentle with the child.

"Though Maria won't pose a threat to you any longer," he continued, "we don't know whether or not your blood will still affect Buffy adversely. If it does…"

His voice trailed off. He couldn't quite finish the thought.

Holly's eyes went liquid. "I don't want to hurt Buffy any more," she whispered.

"You're not going to," Joyce said, pulling the girl into her arms and soothingly stroking her back.

"Which effectively rules Joyce out as guardian," Giles said. "If something were to happen to you, that would place you in Buffy's care anyway, and we can't trust that just yet."

Buffy felt Spike shift behind her, caught the movement of his glass getting set to the counter before his arms wrapped around her waist and tugged her against him. She sighed in contentment. This was better.

"So what's that mean then?" he asked.

"That means…" Giles cleared his throat. "…we think _I_ should be named your guardian."

For a second, Holly looked stricken, but when Joyce squeezed her shoulders in reassurance, she gave him a tiny nod.

Spike snorted. "That's a soddin' daft idea, Rupert," he said. "You know bugger all about raising a little girl."

"Exactly." The admission made Spike's arms stiffen around her, and Buffy curled her fingers around the back of his. "This is why we think this should be a joint effort. My flat is obviously too small for both myself and a child, and Joyce has stated that her house seems too large without Buffy there any longer. So, the solution is to combine the two. Holly and I will move in with Joyce."

"That's not all," Joyce said quickly when she saw Spike about to speak. "Rupert freely admits that he's not ready to take full responsibility for Holly, and I'm at the gallery all day. So that means we need somebody else to watch her." She smiled. "The bedrooms are all taken, but if you don't have a problem with basements after staying with Xander, you're more than welcome to decorate it as you see fit. And I promise not to make you do any laundry but your own. You don't even have to do Buffy's when she brings it home from school."

Buffy twisted in his arms in order to see the look on his face. Confusion faded to disbelief, shifted to awe.

"You want me to…move in?" he asked carefully.

"It would be a fair swap," Giles said. "Room and board for your services." His lips quirked as he fought not to smile outright. "I must admit to relishing referring to you as the William the Nanny instead of William the Bloody. And I dare say, Xander will have a field day with it -."

"Sod it. I'll take it. Beats bein' chained up in your tub, hands down."

Holly's eyes swiveled among the adults, trying to sort out the new arrangements. "So," she said, "I'm living with you," she pointed to Giles, "- and you," this went to Joyce, "-_ and_ Spike?"

"Don't forget me when I come home for holidays," Buffy chimed in.

A slow smile split the little girl's features and she hopped up from the couch to run for the door. "Can we go now?"

Laughter filled the room.

* * *

Buffy couldn't remember a stroke of midnight more greatly anticipated that that New Year's Eve. They even promised Holly she could stay up to see her fourth birthday, but the little girl fell asleep in Spike's arms before the clock struck ten. To pass the time, Joyce packed up Holly's things, and Giles conferred with Buffy and Spike, going over maps on how to return to Sunnydale, but the minutes still seemed to drag. At five before the hour, she finally managed to convince the others to allow her to slip out and check the barrier, posting the argument that she was the least injured of the entire group.

She returned with good news, and quickly, they set out to make the trip to the vehicles. Buffy and Spike left their luggage behind for the moment; with Silas too injured to walk, Giles and Paul both not exactly up to par, and Holly to be carried, they needed all the muscle they could get. They had to take the long way back to the cars; Silas' bulky form was proving difficult for Spike to keep a hold of without re-opening his wounds. Eventually, though, the trip was made, and Buffy stood next to her mother's car, watching as Spike carefully buckled Holly into the back seat and shut the door without waking her.

"It's about five hours back to Sunnydale," Joyce said. Her eyes flickered to Spike, watching him throw his head back and relish the crisp winter air. "Don't dillydally or it'll be morning before you get back, and you'll have a boyfriend floating out your window."

"Well, I'll vouch for the dillying," Buffy said, "but you'll have to talk to Spike about the dallying." She gave her mother a quick hug. "Thanks," she whispered, hoping that Spike was too preoccupied enjoying his new freedom to hear her. "For everything."

"I think next Christmas we'll have a nice, quiet holiday in," Joyce said as she slid onto her seat. "In fact, I think I'm going to make that a Summers tradition from now on."

"You'll be re-evaluating that decision when moptop wakes you up at all hours, wanting to open her prezzies," Spike said, suddenly behind Buffy.

Joyce smiled. "I survived a certain someone staking out the fireplace for five years hoping to catch Santa Claus and demand why she never got skating lessons from Brian Boitano," she said with a smile. "I think I can handle just about anything."

Buffy blushed in the moonlight and took a step away from the car. "OK, remind me when we get back to Sunnydale to keep you two apart," she said. "Sharing Baby Buffy stories is _not_ my idea of a good time."

"Play nice with Rupert 'til we show," Spike warned with a wag of his finger. "Don't want to catch you doin' anything naughty when we walk through the door."

"Ewww," Buffy said, scrunching up her nose. "I'd finally managed to scrub those images from my brain. Please don't bring them up again."

Joyce grinned as she started the car. "It looks like I just discovered an unexpected bonus to having all these boarders," she said. "A brand new way to torture my daughter."

"Because you don't torture me enough already."

"No such thing."

Stepping back from the car, Buffy waved as Joyce pulled away from the road's shoulder, the taillights oddly bright in the dark. Together, she and Spike watched the car disappear around the far bend, and then his mouth appeared in the hollow of her neck.

"Finally," he breathed, nipping at what little skin he could find beneath her coat collar.

She pretended to push away his hands that had suddenly found their way beneath her coat. "We have to load the car."

"Rather load you."

Buffy laughed, her breath forming misty clouds that drifted up to the clear sky. "OK, that one was bad, even for you."

"Don't tell me you don't want to." Gently, he palmed her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple through her lacy bra. "Besides, I think we've earned a little reward. We saved the day, after all."

"No, Spike." As hard as it was to pull his hand away from her flesh, she did so, turning in his embrace so that she could see the sharp shadows of his face. "_You_ saved the day. I just kind of drove it in your direction."

His lashes lowered. "It's not what I signed on for, you know." His voice was low, his body still. "When we had our little talk about how things would be once we got back to Sunnyhell, this wasn't what I had in mind. What I did…" Spike stopped, and she knew just how hard it was for him to say any of this, even in light of how far they'd come already in their relationship. And loved him even more when he started up again.

"What I did, with the little one, and with dragging that Maria bitch below the ice. I did that for her, Buffy. Not you. Not because it was the right thing to do." He finally looked up. "I did it because I made pidge a promise, and there was no way I would ever go back on that."

"I know," she murmured. Her hand came up to cradle his face. "That doesn't lessen the value of it, though. And maybe next time we have something like this come up - because it will, this is _my_ world we're talking about here, remember - you'll jump in and help because you want to. Or maybe the time after that. I have faith in you, Spike."

His mouth twisted into a half-smile. "I've made you go barmy from all the brilliant shagging, I think."

"Well, yeah, there's that, too." Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his, savoring the heady taste of his mouth and forgetting for that moment about the long drive they had ahead of them. "I love you so much," she murmured when she finally broke away.

"Gonna have to share me now, you know. Got another girl in my life."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But I think I can take her. Or distract her with chocolate."

His fingers laced with hers, and he began tugging her back toward the cabin. "C'mon, pet. Didn't I hear you say something to your mum about me and some dallying? Sounds like a good idea to me."

"So does packing up the car so that we can get back without you dusting on me."

He continued to lead her through the trees. "Sun comes out, I'll just duck down so it can't get me. Wear a skirt. I'll hide between your legs."

"Except you're the one driving, silly."

"So _you_ hide between _my_ legs."

"You're a pig, Spike."

"Love you, too, Buffy."

* * *

Unseen, the trio of ghosts watched Buffy and Spike head back to the cabin with their hands clasped, their words and laughter ringing throughout the clear night.

"I love happy endings," Jenny said.

Tara smiled. "It's not an ending. Not really."

Shaking his head, Doyle rolled his eyes. "Don't start on that whole new beginning crap again," he said. "Let's just enjoy the moment, all right?"

They were silent, their gazes thoughtful. And then…

"Should we be singing 'Auld Lang Syne?'" Tara asked.

"Nah," Doyle said. "Too cliché." He paused. "How 'bout 'Frigging in the Rigging' instead?"

"Doyle!" both women exclaimed.

"What? You heard 'em. You _know_ they're goin' back to the cabin to -."

"You don't have to say it."

"Besides," he continued, "I think it's completely appropriate for the situation. New start for Spike, being serenaded with a song done by one of his favorite bands." At Tara's confused frown, he added, "Sex Pistols. A bit before your time, I think."

"I though it was a sea shanty."

"It is, but Steve Jones did an _amazing_ arrangement that -."

"We're not singing," Jenny said firmly. "End of discussion."

More silence, and then the two lovers disappeared from their view.

"How long before the spell takes effect?" Tara asked.

"It should already be happening," Jenny said.

Doyle sighed. "I don't like messing with their memories like this. It doesn't seem right."

"We don't have a choice." Jenny turned to face him. "And it's not messing. We're just…blurring the lines a little. They'll remember everything that's truly important. Their feelings aren't going anywhere."

"They can't remember they saw me," Tara stressed further. "It would be too weird for them when they got home. It's better if everyone thinks that you and Jenny did it all."

"We didn't do much of anything." His smile was wistful as he looked off to the trees Buffy and Spike had passed through. "It was all them. Surprising what love can do."

The women's gazes followed his, their own faces softening as each remembered the affection and emotion they'd witnessed between the cabin's houseguests over the past two weeks. "Surprising, indeed," Jenny murmured.

THE END


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